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Pooetry

Pungent Death

Droppin’ payloads, I’m creating a reek.
This meaty session is far from weak.

I regret not bringing in a gas mask.
In this stink I wish not to bask.

I’m going to have to burn these clothes.
Then douse myself with a fire hose.

Another patron enters the restroom.
And immediately flees with a zoom.

No doubt he got a hint of the stink.
His pooping plans, he did rethink.

This pungent death rots my brain.
Entering my nose and causing pain.

Alas, the worst is yet to come.
I dread standing up to wipe my bum.

Pure Pooetry

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