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.
Went to the toilet and saw a floating turd,
not flushing is so damn absurd.
Pushed the handle and found out why,
what happened next made me cry.
Brown water coming to the top,
tried everything but it wouldn't stop.
Water and turds all over the floor,
this is something, I didn't ask for.
Squeezed my nose and grabbed a plunger,
it's a good thing I used to be a plumber.
I can feel the turds oozing through my toes,
man this shit really blows.
Finally I got the water to go down,
the once white tile is now covered brown.
Smells so bad, I started to gag,
got some paper towels, a mop and a bag.
Sprayed Fabreze as much as I could,
puked on the floor where I stood.
Took an hour, but the bathroom is clean,
never have I seen something so obscene.
Jumped myself in the shower,
gave myself one hell of a scour.
Suddenly up from the drain,
another turd, I couldn't detain.
There it was laughing at me,
this shit is fucked up, wouldn't you agree.
Maybe this is the famous Mr. Hankey,
this South Park character is making me cranky.
Everywhere I looked, all day I saw poop,
it was like a nightmarish continuous loop.
Just couldn't get turds off my mind,
for the first time in my life, I wish to be blind.
For now on my bathroom is the back yard,
who would have thought turds would leave me scarred.
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!
This morning I had to go potty so bad
I squeezed and I pushed with all that I had
And after what seemed like a great battle
I heard a ker-plunk from what I did straddle
The mighty splash that this thing made
To have a look, my curiosity bade
So up I did rise slowly and sure
So as not to drop any poo onto the floor
I looked into the bowl not believing my eyes
This terd was of a most bodacious size
The cause of the strain was now easy to see
I new then not what I had set free
It leaned upright on the side of the bowl
Like it was in a jacuzi relaxed and whole
As I looked at it again in utter disbelief
I knew I had to flush away my relief
But when I pushed the handle on the toilet I found
All the turd did is spin round and round
Like a wooden stick in water being stirred
I was amazed at the stiffness of this turd
When the flush was done I looked with disdain
The turd was still there and left not even a stain
I flushed again with greater resolve
And the turd broke in half as it did revolve
But then as it started to finally go down
Something then happened that made me frown
It got stuck and clogged up the hole
I watched in horror as water filled the bowl
It plugged the toiled up tight like a cork
And now I wished I'd chopped it up with a fork
I grabbed the plunger from off of the floor
And plunged real hard, for my toiled to restore
But though I plunged with all of my might
It seemed that the turd was winning this fight
After several minutes the water went down
But only at a trickle as again I did frown
So along I did move from plan A to plan B
I'd show this turd who's the boss, not it, but me
So with hot water, a bucket I did fill
And dumped it in so it could swallow that pill
After twenty buckets, the turd did give way
And I was able to flush. Hip-Hip-Hooray!
My country right or wrong
we shall still sing her song and bombs away
Bombs away on FDR we think he got away too far
in giving peasants below, our merit, the audacity to inherit,
our country 'tis only for me'
We'll work you until your flesh falls off, nine till five is not enough, to sell our gizmos here and far, to gluttons all alike
Ooops! (melody old man river)
... Oh tote dat barge and lift dat bale,
ya gets ah little drunk and ya lands in Jaaail
Pull yourself by your own bootstraps, who cares if opportunity naps, while the "America Dream" fades away
cause thirty years of us
America ' tis only for me but not those signers of Democarcy
in Philly where they took that oath, on that damn parchment
on that damnable parchment I ABHOR!!
takin the load down the dirt road,
thinkin about the reggae girl me once loved,
boy did i like the way she rubbed,
i notice me rasta themed pants had a little bump,
me third leg was feelin a little stiff,
i decided to light me a little splif,
me started to rub thee bumb in me pant,
no way i was bout to stop, no way, no chance,
i feel a sensation, me son is Croatian,
me lost control of me rig and next ting ya kno,
me in the ditch wit at sticky hand,
me turd leg cost me 1900.00 annually in
insurance. me learned dat me dont
have much indurance. da lesson to be
learned is if your feeling an itch on ya
turd leg, pullover because if ya dont
you be broke as a reggae boy lost at sea
I'm an accomplished writer of shit
So many of my poems feature piles of it
To-day I slapped up an offering
This one was scribed with lots of passion
No doubt you'll dislike this awful ration
When the mood strikes the lines flow free
My quill puts on a liberal shit spree
This star quality crap is worth proffering
I always surprise myself with my dross
It hasn't the appearance of top gloss
As the afternoon hours slowly draw near
Another poem of shit ilk hath dawned
So I shall let it be nicely spawned
Golly gee this is a grouse piece of turd gear
You aim for everest
With only the skill to cross a hill
You wait for gold
When silver is handed to you
You cock your head, bewildered
Offended I'd reach out to you
A corpse sitting quietly
Ready to decay
Delay, postpone salutations
Till a ring would have no place to hang
Keep waiting on prince charming
No one wants the farmer
Every peasant girl is a princess
And every man is a pauper
i need daylight to catch the rubbing of tree leaves
on the page among licking my thumb,
bread-crumbing cigarette ash and smearing it on the page.
keeping a turd between
your butt cheeks
while you walk from
a beautiful sunset while
sketching 'the reader'
on the front pages of the cantos
with saliva and cigarette ash
and some greenery
can sometimes feel like a
lost hand-baggage on your
weekend trip to Milan,
or a 50 quid note in your wallet;
or a sloppy french kiss:
i say, two tongues make up
shoelaces, or ribbons on a present boxed?