Shitespace
The Shits
Mike Stools
Christ, I've got the fucking shits,
I've really got the runs.
My bowels, they move like Krakatoa
Or twenty cannon guns.
My ringpiece is as hot as hell
And grips me like a spanner.
I bet you it could fry an egg
Or light up a havana.

Oh, I could blame the vindaloo
And I could blame the bhajis
But true to say it's me who ought to
Answer all the charges.
And as I burn
I ought to learn
But know I never will.
For Friday night
Will come again
And I'll eat that same swill.

But for now
I'll shift around
Uneasy in my seat.
The toilet's near
My route is clear
Should I need to retreat.
So please don't curse
If in this verse
I make a quick departure
I'll be back
Minus my cak
Unlike Jeffrey Archer.

At least I am not feeling sick
Or got a bad hangover.
And if I take Imodium™
Then this thing will soon be over.
In fact already I feel good,
My arse now feels the way it should
I think that I could walk OK
And skip and jump and shout hooray
I only feel the urge to fart
Excuse me, it's about to start.
"Pffffft," Hey, look what I can do!
"Shhplurt!" Oh shit! I've followed through...

Bloody Lucky
Kate

You think you've got it really hard,
But not as hard as I.
There's really nothing harder
Than what's up my small brown eye.
The agony of sloppy shit
Is fear I'll never know,
For my own poor shit is hard as steel
And I cannot feel it flow.

My belly swells with methane,
My abdomen aches bad,
My arsehole strains to open,
But it can't so I get sad.
My toilet weeps without me.
It hates that we're apart,
But these days when I'm sat there
I can barely blow a fart.

My pants, devoid of skid marks,
Are boring as can be.
I hang them on the washing line,
Their whiteness frightens me.
My cheeks turn red and purple
And I strain my sphincter more,
But all that ever happens is
My arse gets red and raw.

I've sampled lots of roughage -
Like Fibregel and bran,
But my arse will not relinquish
My long-digested flan.
I've dined on bread and All-Bran,
It didn't do the trick.
I think I might explode quite soon,
I feel I must be quick.

I think it's time I gave up
And used my last resort.
My arse is getting tighter
And time is growing short.
I'll go down to the doctors
And give a girly pout,
And perhaps he'll get a long white tube
And flush my bowels out.

But... hang on... what's this feeling?
Oh God... This must be it!
Those several pints of Fibregel
Have made me want to shit!
I must then end this poem,
I have no time to waste...
Oh fuck! Oh God! Oh Crikey!
... Oh no.




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