Poem Post Poo

It happened so fast
My last little blast
That I’m left quite aghast
Of my pooping and wiping and leaving and weaving
Through the doors of deceiving that this poet would not last
At his pledged, most beloved task
And failing and flailing for the words that mask
The pain of the poops that do not pass
With ease or speed through mine own ass.
Ah, but Alas!
This poo has not lapsed without proper due,
For here are those words from the poet of poo.

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