Thou Shalt Not Poop

A doodie-dove sits anxiously perched.
I’m in a frantic, panicking search.
Desperately I seek a vacant cubicle.
This brown rock is unmovable.
Then I spy the local church.

I make a mad dash for the doors.
Still unspoiled are my drawers.
Cubicle sighted, I blast my way in.
Eyes closed, I begin the brown sin.
Suddenly a voice that I abhor.

A man of belief is giving me aggression.
I don’t need this religious oppression.
I’m being yelled at by this jerk.
Says it’s the Devil’s handiwork.
Seems I’ve soiled their booth of confession.

Pure Pooetry

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