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Magic, Pooetry

The Magic Poorridge Pot

My loo is shattered and gross.
It’s certainly nothing I would boast.
Yet busting to go I had little choice.
Gotta dump before undies get moist.
And be rid of last night’s lamb roast.

In the nick of time, cheeks slammed down.
A split second prior began the flooding brown.
I summoned the strength to take a peak.
I trembled and stood with knees so weak.
Still flowing, the tide was headed southbound.

Like in the tale, The Magic Porridge Pot…
All I saw was an endless river of grot.
And a sight, toward it I felt abhorrent…
Witnessing a spew forth such a torrent.
While my poor rectum sizzled and burned hot.

In the fairy tale the porridge would not stop.
It flooded the whole village with its slop.
And now the very same was happening to me.
I knew not the words to slow this fecal spree.
Now wherever I go I’ll have to carry a mop.

Pure Pooetry

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