Ya really got to wonder
how the process really works
Turning food into something
closely akin to mud, or dirt
Eat that steak or yogurt
and magically it seems
It's turned to something brown
as out your ass, it streams
The mysteries of waste
a defecated product made
simple fertilizer proof
of something, now decayed
It's a total wonder
as joy upon release
a crap that feels so good
as defecations, cease
God in his infinite wisdom
created life and everything
as bowels, are emptying
Whilst walking down the street
I heard a thunderous tweet;
'Twas a straining little bird
Who couldn't pass a turd.
The little thing was constipated,
Its anus wide dilated;
Tweeting loudly in mid-bog,
Trying to eject a log.
I observed with sympathetic heart
As it trumpeted out a fart;
Straining, chirping loud and long,
Letting off a foul and noisome pong.
I watched for nigh an hour
Its display of anal power;
Then a final intestinal pump
Produced a huge great steaming lump:
A mighty ball of faeces
(a giant of its species,
and total bumhole splitter
which shattered its feathered shitter).
There was a ping pop and fizzle, I heard my new born grizzle, like fine rain it started to lightly drizzle.
There was a fizzle pop and ping, the force upset my ring due to the sting.
It took on a life if it's own and the poem went out the window.
It crawled out my rectum like a possessed rabid zombie, the worm had turned and gave a wink as it continued to slink out of my hole.
I swallowed the air which had thickened as a result of the gas creeping out the pores of the beasts own ass.
This thing was a body in my body but nobody knew not even me!
I fell to my knees face to face with my creation not born from my mother but sort of like my brother.
Good grief! I had eaten a KFC bargain bucket the night before, I smiled and it smiled a gob full of corn on the cob teeth.
The saddest day of my life.
My mud baked excrement died at sea. Bobbing up and down with the style of a cheap hooker, I wiped a tear from my eye as I said goodbye.
A part of me felt choked as white streams of bog role acted as the white sheet of a murder scene.
No police, no forensics.
Strangulation appeared to be the cause resulting in decapitation.
Wouldn't have happened if I didn't use Manipulation to overcome the chronic constipation.
Last time I eat beans on toast.
Now I'm being haunted by a turd shaped ghost!
To fart or not to fart, that’s the fucking question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the anus is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To fart, to fart!
But perchance to shit, there's the fucking problem;
For in that mighty fart of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the panties’ o’erflowing,
The leaking anal orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a butt-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both pissing and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.