Post-work Poo

Being laid off won’t stop me from pooping

Doing some while on the clock is the best

But these poems will continue looping

Through everyone’s emails, texts and all the rest.

 

Max shared his fresh tuna, a big ass blue fin

Before that were hotdogs, chips and beer

A combination that makes this shit an unholy sin

Full of a stench that the righteous shall fear.

 

And that’s all I have to say about that

No need to wax on and smother you in detail

Even if this poo was quite long and fat

But I will say, my book is available in retail.

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Sour Patch

This little brown pill

Dropped from my ass

Hit the water with a will

Splashing water up in Mass.

 

Butt cheeks wet

Temper flaring

Those sour patch kids, I bet

Are laughing while I’m glaring.

 

There’s more poop to pass

But I’m all plugged up now

With a dripping wet ass

Sour patch kids, I tip my hat and bow.

 

Sunday Funday Eats

Sunday funday eats

Make Monday hell day shits.

Too much cake, too many meats

Too much effort, too little bits.

 

Maybe next time, a little night cap

Milk of magnesia to soften the stool

To make Monday an easy lap

Of dropping the kiddies off at the pool.

Wordplay

Somewhat greasy, mostly foul

I poop today and mind the bowl

The smell, it echoes like a howl

Frightening as easy as a newborn foal.

 

Dissipates, gone and can’t be found.

Grateful though, for I was not fond

But I am less, by at least a pound

Evidence beneath me in the little brown pond.

Chicken Parm

Chicken parm in

Fist of pain out

Yesterday’s sin

Has me squirming about.

 

Never should have blasphemed

Unholy karmic backlash

Is the very current themed

butthole torture clash.

 

Why oh why?!

I must scream

As I feel I shall die

Of my deadly pooping meme.

2nd Amend

Twofer? Barely knew her.

Short load

But much power

Looks like a toad

Only uglier

Two poop mode

Knees up higher

Like the unicorn showed

Guts are emptier

Head bowed

Twofer? F her.

 

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.