The Slimy Log and The Brown Trout

Here I sit, dropping a slimy log.
I gotta tell ya, it’s no smiley bog.
Its grossly soft and quite gooey.
What’d I expect? It’s pure pooey.
And now I smell the brown fog.

I wish I could speed up this dump.
Get back to work, I’m under the pump.
I don’t like being on the John too long.
But this poo feels like it’s from King Kong.
So I remain sitting on my rump.

Now I’ve been sitting here far too long.
But I could still be pooping all along.
Cos I’ve lost circulation to my knees and butt.
And I can’t tell if I’m still laying the doughnut.
A pre-wipe tells me where the dung belongs.

A brown trout splashes it’s way out.
And my sleeping anus is coming about.
Fully awake, it does a puff of brown cloud.
And an unexpected sound, much too loud.
The mating call of the brown trout.

I want to flush them both away for good.
The trout and log, creatures misunderstood.
But together they do a swirly dance of joy.
Foul waters turn murky like sauce of soy.
Flushed now, later mistaken for driftwood.

Pure Pooetry

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