The Runs

It splutters, it splurts.
And with chilli it hurts.

It shoots outta ya bum.
Like a bullet from a gun.

But it’s more like a full clip.
Spraying just below the hip.

The sounds of this repetitive spatter.
Make you visualise the grotesque matter.

The explosive blast is like a rocket.
Now you’ve a stain in your back pocket.

The bowl gets a fresh coat of paint.
Stained forever with brown taint.

Your cheeks get some splashback.
But now fecal free is your crack.

It’s time to rise and wipe your hole.
Trust me, do not look in that bowl!

Pure Pooetry

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