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Pooetry

Trumpeting Shart

I awoke in shock to the sound of a fart blast.
Something loud broke my sleep so steadfast.

But the trumpeting fart was my own.
It sounded wet as it was being blown.

Had I sharted from slumber into my bed?
I wanted to know but was filled with dread.

Reaching down would tell me right away.
However the gurk on my fingers would stay.

I decided my pants needed visual inspection.
I envisioned seeing a sickly rancid collection.

But the results were clean and poop-free!
So I leapt back into bed, filled with glee.

The landing was soft but also warm and squishy.
Turns out in the sheets I’d left something fishy.

Pure Pooetry

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