Poop, I finally release you!

Escape! For I’ve held you prisoner too long.

The shame of constipation, knew

That I longed to hear, your freedom song!

Flatulence, in abundance, precluded your freedom.

And in my defense, I tried to expel you from my dukedom.

But you would not budge!

I heaved and I grunted, brow wet

But you would not leave, no nudge

Would move you to get



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.

Giants and Sprites

The blue whale of shits

So long, I had to stand

Grossly, the tip, my scrotum it hits

My balls, now stained by my brand.

More to come

Though not with ease

But here joins Pat, to add some

And wow! The sound of his, please!

He’s quick, that Pat

Pooped, wiped and left

In less time than I sat

His poo was most deft.

But now I am finished as well

Time to clean the dirt star

And get back to hell

Which for me, is about on par.

Number 1 the second

With 101 done
It's time for a new number 1
Of poetic musings on taking a number 2.
This second edition, of the poetry of poo
Is ready to rock out—

I’m sorry, I’ve got to interject here that while I’m sitting in the loo, composing this poem and taking a poo, a lady poked her head in and asked, “Is anyone in here?” To which I replied, “Yes…” “Oh,” she said with unwarranted surprise (this is the men’s room after all). “Can you flush when you’re done?” She further inquired. “I always do,” I answered back testily. Seriously, what the actual fuck?? Anyway back to important shit:

And flourish and flout,
The thinking and feeling of pooping each day.
And pumping that out and sending it your way.
So that we can all rejoice in the pleasure of a good dump
And the words that flow from my giant brown lump
Poo Poetry, Take Two
From me, to you.

False Misgivings

Somewhat late,

I had feared

And had myself geared

Towards a poo I’d hate.

Unfounded this fear

As the poo came out nice

Carrying a hint of spice

From food made with cheer

And it should be noted

The end draws near

101 poems, ya hear!

Of poop they are coated.

And when they come out

I’m sure they’ll succeed

And profits will proceed

To cause me to poop with a shout!

On hold with Amazon

On hold with Amazon

Are my pants on?

No! I’m on the pot

So they are most definitely not.

Well, they’re on my legs

Which the question begs

Why don’t they have pegs?

To hang your pants up?

Like my car has holders for my cup

Sidenote: the guy in the next stall

He’s giving it his all.

The sounds coming from his ass

Speak of troubles I’d gladly pass

Anyway, I’m no longer on hold

My business conducted, while pooping, so bold.

Also, turns out that

That guy, was Pat.

Another Double Deuce

Another double deuce!

Am I at war with my ass?

I’d call for a truce,

If I knew it would pass.

Punctuation is fun:

Look at me run!

But I won’t get far…

Non sequitur, tar?

Look, I’m at a loss

As to what to say

About not being the boss

Of my poop and it’s play

So just read to the end

And I promise

Your doubts I will mend

My name, is Thomas.