Best Crapping Poems
Cat faeces in piles on the grass
I’m tempted to butt plug cat’s ass
But two solar cat scarers
Have stopped cat crap terrors
Their solar charged tone works first class!
No kitty poop piles this week
Though daily its cat poop I seek
There’s no turds on my lawn
I’m no longer forlorn
Cat’s crapping elsewhere, YES! I shriek!
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
I’m giving up, can’t take no more, I’ve reached the final straw,
How do you find a flamin’ job when you’ve turned fifty-four,
I’ve knocked on nigh a thousand doors and trudged a million miles,
To find me name pushed into draws, in the unwanted files.
But with all me money run out, and me life stuck in a hole,
Me ego has to disappear, and I must sign up for the dole,
This is the worst day in me life, I’m embarrassed to the core,
Standing at a counter waiting for the bloke to hear me score.
I introduced meself and told him straight “I don’t want the dole,
I really want to find a job, and that’s me utmost goal,
I’m sick of handling regimes, then being told ‘so long!’
Mate I really, really want a job…‘sit down’ money is so wrong!”
“Well! Your timing is amazing” Said the fella with a grin,
“A job that might be right for you, has just been penciled in,
A wealthy bloke now wants a chauffeur, to drive his flashy car,
And you must be a bodyguard, for his nymphomanic daughter”.
“Clothing will all be supplied, and with long hours for this work
All your meals will be provided free…yes, there is another perk,
Three holidays upon the Gold Coast are provided every year,
And your salary will not be less, than two hundred grand a year”.
I must admit that I was silenced by the offer that he read,
But wary ‘bout his cushy job, so that is why I said,
"I think you’re talking garbage mate, and bull crapping quite a bit”.
Then he replied with just a nod. “Yeah, well you bloody started it!”
With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.
The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.
The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground
for the perfect spot
to make his nocturnal emissions.
I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini,
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
“grace-filled moments?”
from my past year.
The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.
There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.
The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment,
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I,
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.
Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap
upon the frozen ground.
Continued from Part 1
Matt Dillon chases Jack LaLane
Around a roller derby lane
I think I need some more cocaine,
So please don’t ever come back Shane
I try to walk another street
When me and Walter Cronkite meet;
He says he thinks the news is neat
And starts to talk about the sleet
I run away as fast I can
When Brinkley and the other man
Say ‘good night Peter, good night Pan’
While Tinker Bell is on the can
A dog starts crapping up the yard,
He must have eaten too much Pard
But watch out, here comes Pat Boone, bard,
He’s taking steps without regard
I find a jackass facing me
And ride as far as far can be
And find myself beneath the sea,
But now Lloyd Bridges faces me
I think he must be on a hunt
To find a mind that he can stunt;
He says ‘they’re sitting all up front
And you can hear them as they grunt’
Old Ironsides rolls into view
And says he’s looking for a clue;
I close my eyes and say ‘me too’
’cause something seems so much askew
I better buy some brand new specs
’cause Mickey Mouse is rated X
And everybody’s doing sex;
Ben Casey gives the VD checks
Hey, Milton Berle is throwing rocks
And Elvis Presley’s chased by flocks
Of girls in teeny bopper socks;
Please help, I’m sick, I need two docs
A weirdo asks me ‘what’s my line
If Ricky Nelson drinks my wine
And Lucy is my concubine;
Paola’s great if I get mine’
I’m looking for a place to hide
I stick my thumb out for a ride
When Jackie Gleason pulls up beside
‘If two squared’s four, can you divide?’
‘Of course I can, I’ve been to school
And I am not nobody’s fool’
I feel I am a molecule
Just floating through a vestibule
So Jackie says ‘you are a kid
But older than a pyramid,
Too bad you’re not a phallic squid;
I say, ah, can you spare a lid?’
Some girls are wearing panty hose
They shave their hair which overgrows
And spray away their bod’s B.O.s;
I want to fade inside my clothes
Continued in Part 3
In the woods on a soft green patch
trying to get my pants to unsnapped
Hurrying now as my stomach starts to roar
giving no time to drop my drawers
My face is sweating 'I'm I dying?'
the cramps so bad I feel like crying
With relief it hits the ground
thanking God I have no crowd
But what's that sound I hear
humming above the ground?
Thousands of flies coming in to score
up and running I leave behind my drawers
Back at camp my buddies start laughing
when I notice my pants are on backward and I'm still crapping.
Contest: Everyone Poops sponsored by: Roy Jerden Placed 5th
T Reams
Happy (dead) Mother's Day.
Here's a fistful of wildflowers for your final resting place.
Your demise was far swifter than your time.
I wasn't old enough to get to know you.
Just a few matted memories and some 8mm film clips
Your smile was sweet and wide.
You gave me a naked cowboy piggyback ride.
We had a cat named Blue and a short, wide bulldog.
I'm guessing by the small room smiles
these were the best of our times.
Dad got rid of Blue because she couldn't break the habit of crapping in the bathtub.
One day a kid split my lip with a tin can.
I went balling into mother.
Another time I opened the farmer's gate so the cows could escape,
For punishment, he gave me a dead corn snake necklace.
Black crows surrounded mother's final bloody bed.
A little silver music box reminded me of her
It gave me some sad sort of comfort.
Time graciously swept most of the rot from inside this head.
Lullaby Slam
Chris boy you wanna be the man.
You must like getting your lights punched in
You are lucky I am your greatest fan
Anyways, 30-year-old poet baby.
I will take it easy on your first spam slam
This occurs with a warning, burning Canadian bacon
Let's take this down to MY Dr. Seuss level
I will draw our first run as sweet as I can
I'd hate to see you crapping like a child
Reading, yes man PD I can
I was going to slam you where it hurt,
after reading all your dirty dirt.
Every mother knows how to take a baby out
Give it warm milk, to tap his ass to sleep
Alternatively, I will milk my way into your dreams
Making you scream
Here's a Lullaby slam to pass you out
I could provoke a military round
But what fun would that be to bring you down
This will not get any justice, from your disgrace
This lullaby slam is to knock you unconscious
For yippee yapping, in my face
Slamming you crazy * does not sound right
Are you really bored, you keep me up all night
You require me to put my P.D. Mask back on
Perhaps tomorrow I will slam you till the night is gone
At this point, time and moment
I will only sting like a bee
To see if you come after me
You might have seen this one before
With the pleasure of making you crawl
For more
I will remain here in the soup
Waiting for you to join in
I will wait to see your next move
Hopefully, I do not suffer from waiting long
Chris-baby tomorrow is another day.
Before I depart, I left you a bottle of warm milk
On this page, for you to drink before you read
Nite, Nite!
Nice baby!
(FUN)
(a lighter-hearted parody of the masterpiece poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a noonday sunny, while I smiled at something funny
In the park where children play and suitors woo,
’Midst the sound of subtle flapping, suddenly I got a crapping;
On my cheek I felt it slapping, warm and wet and slimy, too,
And my uncontrolled reaction to the foul, repugnant goo
Was a squeamish “Eww-ew-ewww!”
Soon my shock assumed a passion of a duly fiercer fashion,
For the bough above disclosed a damning clue:
There a shapely dove was lurking, all her guilt and duty shirking,
Unconcerned and coyly smirking, just to see what I would do.
“Fiend!” I cried, “You’ll feel my vengeance!” but this only made her coo,
Sighing softly, “Toodle-oo.”
Whereupon, with madness growing, I picked up a stone for throwing,
As but slightly farther off she lightly flew,
But my aim was rash confusion and it met with no conclusion,
So in spite of my delusion there was nothing I could do.
Now my heart will not get over how she crooned her calm adieu:
“Toodle-ooo-oo, toodle-oo.”
Eyes glib from tree and nominous tree
Go barking with intent.
To foe itself in one-two-three
And leaphing as it went.
In black from shadow nail to nut
Bad rifle cock in hand.
Dick’s Turbin angry as a foot
Suspecting cross the land.
In ukulele’s uniform
A unicycle too.
Bi-dykles round the Matterhorn
With mouldy Irish Stu.
From vileduct out to craggy glen
Fat Andy takes his bird.
And crapping ever by hissen
A trumping sound is heard.
Gruff rozzers with their monty hunt
Watch ever closetful look.
And seeching on a Quakers front
Play handclap with a hook.
Through curlfew bends and spiteful leads
Half etched upon their heads
Mock heed within their harristweeds
Whilst plotting from a shed.
Go bootle up your bottlenose
You onion bread – you scab!
There’s nothing like a good repose
Two inches at a stab.
And if, in some unlucky pose
A match should strike its head.
We’ll light a Camel by its toes
And hump it on some bread.
I'm at a new school. Its name is “The Michael Jackson School for Rock Stars.” The courses
here are Gay!
My first assignment is to learn to play the skin flute and sing like a rock star. To be a
good rock star, I'm supposed to feel around a lot, to give oral sex to the dude across the
stage, and to cum at the audience. I did not act like that at my old school, so I think
I'll have to work on it for a while; this will be interesting homework.
My second assignment is to learn to have an entourage, which is a group of people that
always seems to follow around a rock star. I have a lot of friends, but for this
assignment I suddenly have Pineapple people following me around, telling me how gay I am,
how they really like my tounge in there *******, and how I am the most annoying person
ever. I can't be sure, but I think they are just saying that.
My final assignment is to put on a rock concert. I have to arrive in a Pink Inter-tube and
walk the Rainbow carpet, past all the horny **** fans with cameras flashing in my face.
Then, when I get inside, my entourage will be there and I will get ***** with them to the
stage. Next, I'll perform Spongebob songs, all while Cumming across the stage, singing,
and Crapping at the audience. This will be the toughest final exam I've ever had, and the
one I'll never forget!
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Hesitation gets you no where, beware dont go there
thats a violation punishments annialiation
plant the seed and watch it grow just to get chopped down
cant be stopped now, welcome ya'll to my pow wow
i make the gun go plow gun powder mouth, automatic, im an addict
and i dont know how to quit firing off rounds
No mission is impossible disregard all obstacles
cold popsicle, sicker than a hospital
wheres the alcohol, cuz im addicted to the bars
your greatest the rapper on earth, thats fine cuz im from mars
damn my covers blown, earthlings you arent alone
I was bluffin, thanks for nothin, thanks for stuffin
my head full of lies and deceat, I guess no reason for me
to go to church no more, im done for
I might as well go shooot up a gun a store
no wait I think instead i'll go fight for iraq,
tell em all the secerets then give bin laden a dap
president bush snorin in his office takin a nap,
reading the newspaper smiling and taking a crap
you might be hating this rap, but im never takin it back
no receipt kapeeshe, you didnt pay for it jack
99 problems and a ***** is one that i got
my girlfriends loose so i tied her up in a knot,
now she go cant go around hoppin from cock to cock,
thinkin shes Hot, spreadin every damn disease that she got
fuhck a G, this chic has an A-Z spot,
things so wide you could park diddy's yacht
when she cum's she sneezes out bugers and snot,
excuse my language im dangerous when im angry alot
picaso couldnt paint this master piece, after me, im happily
crapping on rappers
im so complex in my simple text,
that you almost look forward to what comes next
it could be about any subject or topic just know you cant top it
the way that i say couldnt be said any better, every word every letter
a veteran at only nineteen, its frightneen and might seem unbelievable
but u gotta believe it along as its readable,
and I cant speak so i let ink leak,
onto the paper and into ur mind where its safer
cuz this stuff is lethal, the combo of my tounge and my teeth will
be sure to be heard by all people, its all equal, eminem retired now im the sequel
it'll beheath you to increase breathing and cut down on the speech, you reach a
point where talkin
will get you no where,
i know its your freedom, but pleas dont be dumb
Im a lumber jack leave you stumped like a tree trunk...
Tension Relief Program or TRP is a new treatment for a condition from which many of us suffer.
Step 1: Say "Footboatgoose" 3 times.
Step 2: Laugh.
If you cannot laugh, try restarting the program.
Saying "footboatgoose" 3 times may summon goofballs with bad hair, foul language, and noisy black & white striped suits.
TRP may cause ILLS(Infinite Logic Loop Syndrome).
If you develop ILLS, suspend using TRP and call Tech Support.
ILLS may make you unsafe to drive, so ask a friend to help you.
Treatment of ILLS is available and recovery is possible.
Side effects of TRP may include snorkel nose, pick-up stickyballs, and memory crapping.
Less common side effects may include trembling limbo bimbo, itchy fuzz-butt stubble, and jumping Macarena beans.
Men may experience interrupted pistachio stream and/or herniated taco sauce.
Women may experience runaway Fallopian tubin' and/or made in China milk.
WARNING: Saying "footboatgoose" around strangers may cause temporary detention.
TRP is still in development, but I think it is safe to use in moderation.
Please send all concerns to whom?
TRP v1.15 - Fit to Print
In the light
The majestic eagle will have a true desire, to follow its quest, by keeping a great number of pest in check, conducting business by light of day, and finding itself remiss by cloak of night.
Clay pigeons
Cowardice makes mice of men, hubris makes pigeons of politicians, both are pesky critters, but the pigeon struts around fearlessly with its chest bowed out, while crapping on us all from high places.
Explicit
My goal is to piss everyone off, because I aim to speak the truth.
Self-determination for all
Freedom is not always what it is supposed to mean
It gets curtailed by the influence of the world we live in,
for many freedoms is scary, they prefer freedom within
the cage that is full of seed in all colour you can think of;
such as a religion of choice and *********** to satisfy your
hidden desire.
A canary sat on a perch inside its confinement and noticed
the gateway was open, it flew out and the feeling of freedom
was intense, think sitting on a bookshelf and crapping on
a newspaper the “Guardian” on the small table by the chair.
A window was open, more freedom, it flew out sat on
the branch of a tree, feeling totally free and no one would say:
how blue the bird is?
A raven, shiny black saw the bird and the was that
a few blue feathers are blowing in the breeze.