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Pooetry

Poopsicles

In the air a frosty fecal chill.
And the smell of a brown spill.
Poopsicles hang from the ceiling.
I shudder at the cold feeling.
But also the stink of rancid swill.

From the south icy winds blow.
Winter’s frigid farts are my foe.
But now it’s Spring, the poop defrosts.
These warmer farts puffs like exhausts.
Frozen poops will once again flow.

Pure Pooetry

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