Bland

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.

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