Papa’s Birthday Bog

Today is the anniversary of my birth.
Celebrating, I produce a monstrous girth.

Eggs on toast with super strong coffee.
The beginning of this monstrosity.

Then I add a fine Cuban cigar.
Smoke it away filing myself with tar.

Another coffee is needed to help with the brew.
And another cigar well, that’s up to you.

Then we add four kilos of chicken.
Cook and eat ’til your stomach is splittin’.

One more fine Cuban and one last coffee.
Ingest them both and prepare for toffee.

But this my friends is no ordinary poo!
For a birthday borry only the finest throne shall do.

With little to no warning at all…
I make my way to my favourite stall.

It is in my home where the throne is gold.
Unlike other facilities, all covered with mould.

I plant my cheeks on my diamond studded seat.
Then lift my legs and raise my feet.

A foul odour slowly begins to emerge…
Something has crowned and needs to be purged.

I brace both walls to increase downward pressure.
And I begin breathing exercises for good measure.

The smell gets worse as the turd begins to move…
My stomach feels like it was just kicked by a horse’s hoove.

Kerplonk! It’s out like a redwood log.
This has been my birthday bog.

Pure Pooetry

1 comment

Leave a Reply