Pope of Poo

Blessed be the shit 
That just flowed from me!
Twas an unholy thing, I sit
pondering the mystery
Of how and why it would not leave
When the gas it leaked like a sieve
Was fouler than anything I could weave

With rotten eggs and sulfur.

But it is gone now, my guts cleaned out
But it haunts me still
Like Emily Rose with a ghostly pout
Telling me I've yet to pay the bill
With more to come and send me to heave
and push and try my best to perceive
A loosening of such proportion that I cannot help but grieve

And cry, and beg and of a divine helper. 
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