Cornhole Anyone?

He beat me to the stall.
So to the 3rd floor I trespass 
To push my poo out my ass
And pretty much, that is all.

But wait, there's more!
I look to see what has passed
Corn riddled poo in store 
For mine eyes to have surpassed 

If I had not looked 
None the wiser
That stall was booked
And me a miser

So always peek
Of the poos that leak
From you who are woke
A great and billowing cloak!

Shite shite

Skipping dinner is ill advised 
Your poo will be less 
And probably dried 
Making a mess

Of which you will hate 
That crumbly poo
Will cause such a state 
Of scraping and filling the loo

With sounds of despair 
And plucked ass hair 

Right from the taint 
Which could make you faint

This poem is shite.


Quiet Shame


He sits to my left

A great firing off blast trumpets his poo!

I feel shame

At my almost soundless retort.

Like an elephant announcing his greatness!

And before I know it, the jingle of his belt signals his finish.

And I am left


And unfinished…

What’s Happening??

Never in life, have I had so many days

Where I sat on the pot twice

And pooed so many ways.

I’d say it was nice

But that’d be a lie

As I sit here once more

I’m not sure why

This poo is a whore.


Xmas Poo

With so much good food 
I cannot believe 
That on Christmas Eve
Nobody pooed.

Come Christmas day 
I really did think 
There'd be no way 
The bathroom wouldn't stink.

But, all the good cheer
And merriment too
Did not bring, I fear
A Christmas poo.

And having to work 
This poo must've known 
While in my bowels it did lurk 
That today I'd be shown 

All the poo would then flow and thereby bestow a grand evacuation of splendid defecation. Merry Christmas!

Filet or Filet

Ahh, the poop of today

What can I say

It came from a filet

Seared in a skillet

Which rhymes with filet

If from across the pond you hail

Sort of like Nissan

For us our knee’s on

For them they piss in

Or like aluminium

We: a plume in the bum

They: shall sue in freedom


I'm at a loss as to what to say
This poo is underwhelming 
And hasn't inspired a way
To wax on and take the day.

I had high hopes 
When sitting next to Hammond 
Of merrily penning tropes
Of the pooping of the Pope's.

For I was struck 
By the imaginings of a small boy
With nothing but luck
Falling into the Pope's muck.

Now before you go there 
I'm not alluding to wrongdoings 
Of holy men and where
Their genitalia lairs 

I'm simply saying 
That I have nothing very promising 
Or very swaying 
As to be entertaining.

And so I thought 
Of the pooping Pope 
Of kids in sewers wrought 
By the church's great hope

Of the holy stench of the man on high.