There was a man named Jack Smith.
His pants contained a terrible whiff.
Near him you had to hold your nose.
He certainly didn’t smell like a rose.
A stench so bad you’d think it a myth.

Poopetually he would poop his pants…
With legs apart in a proud stance.
This created the stink mentioned above.
But he said it was a labour of love.
And now he’s banned from entering France.

Pure Pooetry

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