There's something obscene we all have to do,
It's brown, it stinks, and it goes in the loo.
It's considered by some a taboo word,
But talk of a turd is often heard.
Some people say the whole subject is foul,
Others take pride in the fruit of their bowel.
You know when to go by the weight of your butt,
Or the violent smells that erupt from your gut.
You perch on the bog, arms on your lap,
Browsing through comics, doing a crap.
It's bracingly cold the moment you sit,
Your bumcheeks poised above a porcelain pit.
Your sphincter recoils for the turd to emerge,
Your stomach primed for the excretory surge.
One final heave and out it will come,
Your asshole pouts as it exits your bum.
Before you flush or wipe your behind,
Look down below to see what you find.
Sometimes a nugget, sometimes a log,
Sometimes it's so big it blocks up the bog.
Sometimes it floats, sometimes it hides,
Sometimes it's so fast it don't touch the sides,
Sometimes you get one that strikes you with fear,
It's hot, it's sloppy and it's called diarrhoea.
It's a volatile turd that you cannot ignore,
It strikes unannounced and leaves your hole raw.
It floods from your tum when your arsecheeks part,
So take extra care when you force out that fart.
As soon as you're done give your butthole a wipe,
Just be sure when you flush that it goes down the pipe.
It isn't too nice when you look down the sump,
To see a sinister, turbid, liquefied dump.
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