The Brown Convict

The brown convict was restless.
His desire for freedom, endless.
He had to wait for the right time.
To break out the filthy slime.
So he plotted schemes of wetness.

Forever preparing and waiting.
He was itching and agitating.
Long time waiting for the ripe moment.
Overdue to the world his bestowment.
Now a stale fecal fossil carbon dating.

One day a chance for escape appeared.
The fleshy passage was suddenly cleared.
The brown convict leapt at the chance.
Ripping a hole through the back pants.
Then down the toilet bowl he smeared.

Through old rusty pipes and grotty tubes.
Wriggling past gunky condoms and pubes.
But much like Andy Dufresne.
When he came out of the drain.
He was squeaky clean and smelled of lube.

Pure Pooetry

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