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
OUT!
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.
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.
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.
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
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!
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.
