The Chalet of Shit

In the dead of winter I suddenly realise…
My icy brown turdicles begin to crystallise.

I dream of streaming brown flurry.
Like the aftermath of a rancid curry.

Flakes of ice settle on my exposed hide.
Chilly nuggets I deposit with pride.

The freezing bowl sticks to my cheeks.
The air is frozen yet the bog still reeks.

If I had a hammer I could crack this shit apart.
My anus is so frozen I can’t even give out a shart.

The high risk of hypothermia draws near.
Frosty bowel movements may cost me my rear.

They say not to eat the yellow snow.
So I make my own steamy Play Dough.

I create The Chalet of Shit with my bogs.
It’s walls made of my laid brown logs.

From the frigid winds, I’m safe at last.
Now I’m free to give a final rectal blast.

Pure Pooetry

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