Holy my shit I can feel it,
Only my god is really true.
Every other god is a straight lie,
Just gas through ass flowing through.
Usually after tea, constellation in harmony,
I always consult the stars.
A soft spoken fart the polite start,
Like the acknowledgement in memoirs.
My fart, fine art, when I start,
Mysterious are the six days of heaven.
If shit gets stuck I put finger in the muck,
Sometimes a whole fist on day seven.
From this side or that my turd always fat,
An image of its engendering hole.
Such high thought, thinking outside the pot,
Pinching a loaf, a goodly puckered soul.
I bite and fight my god my right,
I'm parked where I've shit before.
This then a holy land if you understand,
Otherwise you're just a rancid whore.
Often in the scent are my feelings pent,
The gods clap themselves gay.
This perfume a melange of toxic fumes,
Holds the noxious naysayers at bay.
Coolio says I, as I shit more or try,
Bubbles in the bubba to beget.
Hope between farts when broken in parts,
A posture of divine pressure is set.
Can you not see that this god in me,
Just plopped a turd so fresh.
Now this I guard from the common herd,
Silly mesh of cells called flesh.
Logic is sick shit, there I said it,
The apothecary calls it the new plague.
Guard with your life, carry a sharp knife,
Always be holier and totally vague.
Time for war, never very far,
Your own red decapitated head.
Join me and be both proud and loud,
Be good with my god or drop dead.
