Beef chili lettuce wraps
I’ve opined on them before
Using my poet’s rap
To unwind and settle the score
Those chilies, sometimes they’re hot
So much so they burn on the way out
You never know if they’ll bring the heat or not
Making for a fiery brown spout.
Today, well today they brought the fire
And I can tell you that my O-ring is, well, you know
It’s not happy, in pain it is mired
But, you plow on ahead and keep your head low.
Poop, poop, poop.
Do you ever wonder just how much you make?
In your whole life.
Poundage, I’m getting at.
How much does a lifetime weigh?
Into the ocean, into underground tanks.
TP, baby wipes and ass gaskets.
Shit tons, quite literally.
Slurry cats smell.
It’s like paying for yesterday.
For failing to poo.
Taking the space, in the brown eye…
Poop, I finally release you!
Escape! For I’ve held you prisoner too long.
The shame of constipation, knew
That I longed to hear, your freedom song!
Flatulence, in abundance, precluded your freedom.
And in my defense, I tried to expel you from my dukedom.
But you would not budge!
I heaved and I grunted, brow wet
But you would not leave, no nudge
Would move you to get
Like Captain crunch
That’s how it smelled
And yeah, I know, not how it’s spelled.
But I’ll spell it how I like and eat it for brunch
With mimosas and Mary’s that are bloody.
A one stanza effort, this poop is too tough.
Friday poops are not the best!
Friday poops are but a test!
To see if you can make it through
And get’er done, this dumping of a poo!
I wish I had the chance to play
Like we used to, in recess back in the day
But now I must work and hustle
“Why Kate? You’re not wearing a bustle.”
Doc Holiday, Tombstone. Great flick.
But now the clock is sounding its tock, tick
Which kind of sounds like dirty words…
Of which I know and use for my turds.
This poem had gone off the rails!
And from it, nothing good hails
But a promise to return and do better
With a poop that’s gooey and wetter!
On the day of Odin
I did not deliver.
Like a blizzard snowed in
Nothing left, not even a sliver.
I wanted to, or course
Despite feeling fine.
But still, no poo means no poem; such remorse.
So glad I am today, to be pooping before I dine.
And as for that poo,
Well, I have to say
Between me and you,
Hardly worth the play.
But pooping is good
Even when it’s not
Because every day, you should
Push one out, on the pot.