Long Poo, Much Filled

This poo, it flows

It reeks

It sits in the bowl and steeps

Turning the pee-filled water a mustard brown.

It reminds me not of the way it went down

The food, that is.

So much junk

So much sugar

I wish I would’ve eaten less gunk

And produced a poo less smelling of sulphur.

This packs the punch of days

The passing of constipation pays

The bowl thrice full

From the herd, I must cull

These terrible turdlings

Like foul-smelling lordlings

Parading about

The bowl cries out,

“For God’s sake, flush!”

And I will, for I must

But hush now, bowl hush.

My butthole is almost bust

It has but a straggler or two

That I must usher and push through

To add to the heap

Of mine turds that do steep.



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