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This poem is not quite bathroom poetry,
so it is not in the bathroom poetry section. This
particular poem describes the woes of a middle aged
peasant with too many or not quite enough, socks.
A Poo Poo Poem Poem
My underwear is nice and it smells like old spice.
My pubic hair is in my underwear.
I wear it there because I just don't care.
I sucked myself raw, and it was so very very snoggin.
Tobbogin my loggin.
And the more I want myself the more I come my socks.
My socks.
My socks.
My socks.
The more I come my socks.
I one time made some clocks.
Out of socks.
Yet it ticked with a sort of meshy sound for it was the
crusty come in my socks.
Which made up the clocks.
And I like to run my finger over my toosh.
So very toosh.
My sweet tato tato tato tato too.
My tato tato too.
My wooooo.
My wooooo.
Was a tummy for you?
More?
I like some gerbils for my toes at 9 o'clock sharp on a
Wednesday sometime this month.
More than that if you have a hoola up from your sweet
sweet sweet sweet doggie boo's ass.
Ass ass ass ass ass.
Sometime I tap that ass in the grass.
One time I did it on glass and there was blood on my bum.
My sweet bum bum bum.
Blood on my bum.
Let us now pause and smell the yeast infection.
Hold on. "Brrrrrraaaaaaaaakkkkkkkkk"
More if I can. Can you?
I spermed in my shoe.
Have you my gumball up thy ass?
Let us partake of the fictional vaginal fluids locked in
my baby's meat packet.
Suck is me.
Would you like to see?
More sexy slop than a forceful piocki pie.
My pie.


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