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Pooetry

Ready or Not

It’s a cold Monday morning for what it’s worth.
And I’m about to deliver a hefty fecal birth.

I could feel it gather into a turdmendous pile.
Waiting to be expelled, this thing so vile.

Step by step I made my way to the room.
Where you plant your cheeks and await your doom.

My cheeks were planted and I thought I was ready.
I held on to the rails telling myself to be steady.

What came next was nothing but gore!
A sloppy deluge erupted and overflowed to the floor.

Pure Pooetry

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