Magic, Pooetry

The Number of The Bog

Menacing fart clouds predict an ominous storm.
An ancient evil prophecy is about to be born.

Now I’m dropping a load as the clock strikes twelve.
Into dark brown depths, my mind does delve.

Thoughts invaded by a stinky, sinister force.
Darkness sits enthroned, emitting brown sauce.

A diabolical daemon of doo is stalking my loo.
Malicious six six six is now the number two.

Poocifer on his toilet of skulls and bones.
Transforms my dump into pitch black stones.

The Dark Lord of Dung, has opened his bung.
He attacks with turds furiously flung.

Shrouded from light, frightening fecal takes flight.
Shatan’s devious minions of black shite.

Followed by a runny torrent of devious ooze.
His sickening army of rectal refuse.

His generals and champions, bring the stench.
Depart white porcelain, desecrated and drenched.

Into this world evil has been born.
From my butthole which is now torn.

Say your prayers, but you’ll never get an answer.
Loocifer will gift you with butthole cancer.

Pure Pooetry

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