The Golden Caboose

With a mighty grunt I let loose the golden caboose.
And out it flows, a sickening chocolate mousse.

This stream is lumpy and sloppy, like runny eggs.
The texture is worse than Satan’s gritty dregs.

And the stench, it is unbearable to put it lightly.
Honestly, there’s no way I can speak of this politely.

I close my eyes tightly and plug my nostrils.
Then whisper the prayer of the poo-gospels.

“Please give this steamer a quick and safe journey.
And may my cheeks never need their own attorney.”

“Should the porcelain have any legal counsel fees.
Save them from the treacherous brown seas.”

Pure Pooetry

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