Trapped in poogatory
A lifeless bogject, steaming
Awaiting wiping
Death will be it’s flushination

The sky is turning brown
Return to poower draws near
Shit into me, the sky’s maroon sharts
Apoolish the toilets made of stone

Plopped from below, scents of my turderous past
Pootrayed by many, now orifices dripping between

Awaiting the paper of repoosal
Your finger slips in

Raining bog
From a weighted sigh
Bogging its horror
Excreting my structure
Now I shall reign in bog!