I’m in a new place
With post B day poo
Dropping down deuces in this rather nice space
Hitting it up, in a new to me loo.
Dessert, drowning in chocolate and topped
With gold leaf.
Poo, not nice but not the worst I’ve dropped
To be brief.
And now I’ll check out the wipe
And hope it ain’t lame
But if I know the type…
It’s horribly the same.
Woken by the street sweeper
My brain is barely working
My butthole started jerking
This poo was not a keeper
It demanded release
At 339 in the AM
Who knows if I’d have played’em
If my sleep did not suffer decrease
Pickled jalapenos burning both my holes!
I settled down
On the throne
And found I could not get it all out.
Backed up and full of fire
A terrible State of Affairs
Tomorrow, leafy greens
You’ve missed me, I know
And all the poos, unbestowed
But I’m back in the saddle
With both hands on the paddle
Ready to steer through the poop
And keep you in the loop
Through poetic verses
Of how the poo transverses
And fills up the bowl
To blow your mind hole.
Poo Poetry, take 3.
It’s just you all and me.
A weekend of junk
Filling my gut
High smelly, like a skunk
As it leaves my butt.
But I ran in the morning
To better my body
And pass from the mourning
Of the tasty food that’s quite shoddy.
And now I must wipe
That brown eye of mine
To keep it the type
Of glistening, clean shine.
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.