I've diarrhea,
And it's ink,
Explaining why
My writing stinks.
I've constipation
Of the brain,
Leaving little
But shart stains.
I'm irregular,
I'll wear a diaper,
And write my poems
On toilet paper.

I remember once I farted, in a packed lift,
My two cheeks really parted, if you get my drift
I almost had a heart attack, the sound was so clear,
It was indeed a mighty crack, that everyone could hear.

Now everyone turned red, but I was really blessed
as nothing more was said, I presumed no one had guessed.
Some looked at their feet, others at the wall
But no pair of eyes did meet, no one looked at me at all.

But no one could deny there was an awful hum
And I had to wonder why I was cursed with such a ***.
Dear God, it was bad, worse than ever before
Was it the curry I had? I will not eat it any more.

On no! this can’t be happening, I felt my two cheeks part
This one much more sickening, what some would call a “shart”
Though I tried to look innocent, as detached as I could be
I knew what those looks meant and they were directed at me

We all held our breath, no one dared to breathe
We all faced certain death if the smell did not recede
We all wanted the top floor which was thirty stories high.
Would someone open the door or would we all be left to die

Thank God for ventilation, it really saved the day
For in case of flatulation it will take the smell away
Well I was so relieved, it was quite a close call
And I would not have believed what happened next at all

The lift it just stopped dead, a million to one chance
I thought I’d lose my head but instead I filled my pants.
I learned one thing that day, well at least it keeps me happy
I won’t get in a lift, No Way! without first putting on a *****.

To make a poem ain‘t that hard
You eat the words and create a lyrical shart

A few rhymes that is all what you need
You can make up **** just like that
Also my dog is of no distinctive breed
but he‘s fat

But how do you dare
to waste your readers time
with lines like these

Despicable words you share
This act of yours is worthy a crime
Your thoughts are no more than a disease

There is no worth in a poem as this
I truely have more appreciation for a barrel of ****

But you aren‘t done with your lyrical epiphany yet
The tears of poets around the world make their carpets wet

There is nothing that would be able to stop you
Because even though you say ****, it also is true

Stan Stan Stan,
Pack up the moving van
From St Lou to L.A.
Always with your **** in your hand
Shave that ***** stache
You unkept goofy chap
Oh and give yourself a flush
You giant piece of crap
Lies a flying out your mouth like a nasty shart
The only time you're speaking truth is when you rip a ****
I will hold no grudge, when I'm in L.A. I'll buy you a Coke
Unless of course you pass away from Goodells *** you've choked

rag tag *** hag grocery bag in drag
maxed credit and bragging about having a stag party
farty party girls in shart coated pantyhose blow wasted kisses
to fisters in trousers bumping mump victims blisters
hitting wristers like the Williams sisters
coyote trickster with a brand new mix tape waits
with his **** taped to his own leg like Ricky Lake
on her fist date
another Cosby **** escape hot-plated shared space
I’m no racist cause my skin is white and pasty
I’m tasty and **** like Britney sans the braces insatiable
and my testicles are reckless needing spectacles
done wrecked the hull Captain Pickard
and a test-tube girl –

I don't want to write. I'm not in the mood.
But I have to do it. It's a thing I do.
So, sorry y'all. You'll have to bear with me.
I can't even get drunk right now. Oh the misery.
If you want to skip the *******,
Click down to the ******* squiggley.
I write when the overwhelming reality
Of post-happiness and emptiness surrounds me,
Drowns me in the grip of the undertow
Issuing from all those things I knew
And wouldn't let go of. So they grew
To be stones immovable, the blue
Churning to make room for their slow
Descent into the unknown.
All this is, is my effort to make a bubble.
Whether to signal for help or help myself,
I don't know. I guess whichever is less trouble.
The lovable, down-on-his-luck, real distant
Misfit who knows exactly how to fit in.
I suppose that's me, if you choose to believe
This is me that I'm being. I won't be
Fooled so easily. For indeed I am the fool,
The fool who used his hands
To take food from other lands
And ran on his two feet
After kicking something sleeping.
Something sleeping selflessly.
Something sleeping just for me.
Hell I had to wake it up,
I'm not worth a price so steep.
Everyone should have their chance.
I ****** mine up, so **** me.
~
I told you all to bear with me.
If you've stuck around, that's nice to see.
I don't care either way, the point this is making
Is no point at all. I just need to write.
It's like pressure being taken off a really filled balloon.
It's like somehow quieting down a goin-ape-**** baboon.
Take one is always great, until you record over it with take two.
My lines aren't always great, but you'll snort em up anywho.
I know, I'm all over the place. But these words, they stick like glue.
Maybe that's why I need to write. Maybe that's why I hate it, too.
They never seem to come out right. These words hardly fit any shoe.
Yet, I need something, somewhere to start.
Bleeding heart poet? I'll play the part.
Evolve like a **** to a shart, and become
A mean-spirited thing. A bled heart sum.
A regular in the slums
Breathing trash-burn oxygen.
Looking up at the sun
Wondering where my moxy went.
Burdening my pen,
Which shifts it to the page;
Estranged from the tangle
Now, this unaimed auto-ramble.

I suppose everything should have an end
If only to leave openings to begin again.
But knowing me, I'll probably nail my shin
And fall to the ground, oo-ing and ahh-ing when
It's time for me to get off the stage.
Just take a look at my life, any page.
You'll probably wonder how I've survived on such a wage.
Well, I'm thrifty, *******. I'm insane.
I'm like a perfectly fine cat, but with mange.
You won't touch me, but my own kind will still play.
And if you do, my disease spreads like a plague
And consumes you until there's nothing left but disdain.
Please try to pet me so I can run away.
I want all the attention, without any of the danger.
I know you've fed me....like, every single day.
But that doesn't change that we are both predators.
And that hand that feeds will meet catastrophe
If it happens to wander too close to me.
Cliche time: it's not you. It's me.

So I write and while I'm writing
I find the signs of my demise
Comforting in light of my shortcomings
Falling in place along these lines

I'd rather have a ****
Than a shart,
I'd rather have a bed ache
Than a headache,
I would prefer a scratch
Rather than an itch,
And I'd rather be filthy rich.

But instead I understand
It may be better,
To be satisfied
With a consonant letter,
It's more common
Than a vowel, my friend,
Than an x-y-z perfect
At the end.

I won’t argue with the
Ideal of perfection,
Because it’s more than just
Natural selection,
Hard work and ambition
Rule endeavor,
You may be short
With the largest pure lever,
Balanced on the fulcrum
Of perseverance,
Expect excellence
But settle for clearance,
Otherwise disappointment
Makes failure too easy,
And if you give up now
Your efforts look cheesy.

He's senile, incoherent,
Out of shape,
Out of date.
He tips forward
Cause he blows back wind,
And when he mugs
He waddles his chin.
He smiles and squints
Those beady swine eyes,
Above his lantern-like
Satanic grin.
And it's never about you,
When it's always about him.

Flies follow his brimstone smell,
Like sulphur leaked
From the gates of hell.
The vermin covet
His dependable fill
From a shart attack
While he's standing still.

He's a fake from the toe lifts,
That stop forward tipping;
As fake as orange highlights,
And his mental slippings,
He's glued a fake coif of  fluff,
And, if that's still not enough,
He spews lies,
Framed by his wee hands flailing,
His fetid breath exhaling,
Pouty lips wailing,
And his fat *** trailing
Far behind the Leader.