here's what it taught me about B2B SaaS sales.

1. poopy pants stinky
2. peoplw no like stinky man
3. no like stinky man = stinky man cant sell SaaS

solution: dont **** pantz

First you take a peek, after when you're done.
Then you have a ****, and it's right back to square one.

Walking down the street, looking everywhere.
To find a special peek and ****, one always must prepare.

Peek and ****, peek and ****, is what I love to do.
Peek and ****, peek and ****, it makes me feel brand new.

When I find a spot I like, I crouch and hunker down.
Knowing I've had peeks on almost everyone in town.

Arriving back at home, I find my porcelain chair.
Sitting right upon it, with my big old derrière.

Peek and ****, peek and ****, is what I love to do.
Peek and ****, peek and ****, I sure enjoy the view.

After I am all pooped out, It's time to take a rest.
Dreaming of the peeks and poops I feel have been the best.

Mother liked to peek, and Father liked to ****.
You can bet our family time would throw you for a loop.

Peek and ****, peek and ****, is what I love to do.
Peek and ****, peek and ****, from here to Timbuktu.

Back when I was young, often if I'd see.
A person that I thought was neat, I'd **** immediately.

I hope that when you hear my tale, you'll blush and begin to squirm.
That Mary Jane helped write this one, I'm ready to confirm.

Peek and ****, peek and ****, is what I love to do.
Peek and ****, peek and ****, Should be on pay-per-view

He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****,
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.

The kind of ****, that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of ****, that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.

The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****,
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.

Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.

Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.

Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.

The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.

What goes in, always,
Comes out,
Through the ******* of life,
Which is **** itself.

Such a waste,
That we are born,
Live,
And die,
Fighting for things,
Money
Materials,
******* things,
That we can’t take with us,
When we die.

What a ******* waste it all is,
Yet somehow,
Everything and everyone is needed,
For the next phase of waste.
**** becomes fertilizer,
We become reborn,
Into whatever else is **** out next.

i was late
through no fault of my own
at least
that's what i tell myself
just one of those occasions
where try as you might
the universe won't allow you
to leave on time
standing at the threshold
one final pat of pockets
to check i had
all that i needed
looking up
to gauge the need
for coat or umbrella
i witness
an inhumane globule
of avian faeces
viscous and creamy
in colour and consistency
exploding upon the path
two steps ahead of me
i see no sign
of the culprit
hearing only its cacophony
of enjoyment
or maybe disappointment
drifting
into the distance

cleaning up cat ****
again   gateway to heaven
i hope in something