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Pooetry, The High Seas

Too Close To The Sun / Fecal at Sea

I went too far this time, I flew too close to The Sun.
Two double espressos equal a rumbling in my bum.

A mad dash to the work dunny should relieve this impending poo-doom.
But with all cubicles occupied the unloading has come too soon!

Another southerly grumble and I’m reminded I’m low on time.
If I don’t find sanctuary soon, my pants will be filled with slime.

Staggering down the stairs, yet careful not to rock the boat.
Because the last thing I need is an overflowing fecal moat.

The stairs were not kind to me, there may have been a lil slip.
The tide’s come in early and it’s smashing against my sinking ship.

No free loo to be found, so I take desperate measures.
Like a sneaky pirate, I need to hide these buried treasures.

No one in the lunch room, so I unload in the kitchen sink.
To say I was relieved, an understatement, I would think.

No toilet paper around, so I wipe with a handful of tea bags.
Suddenly in walks the secretary, the fat ugly sea-hag.

Quickly I shove the soiled tea bags back into their glass jar.
Hobbling like a wooden legged captain, she eyes me from afar.

She doesn’t notice, she just wants to make a cup of tea!
I hand her the jar, then make myself scarce and flee!

Pure Pooetry

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