Evacuation (To Form a Mound)

I throw my feces on the ground
repeatedly to form a mound
I leave my feces at the door
When kids eat them
I leave some more.
The kids get sick and miss some school,
everybody calls them fools
The truth is, they are omnivores
my little Fecal Braknosaurs.

Butt, chunk, give it a lick
Drop that clump and give it a kick
Shoe, stain, looking for rain
in bus or truck or aeroplane...
yes, everywhere you foul the scene
with remnants of your pork and beans
How to quell the stench that flows?
Only clever hobos know
so versed they are in streetwise ways
from the urban alley maze
where dropping dung is all the rage
in such sweet sport they all engage.

My razor's jammed with stinky hair
from dingleberried derriere
I'll harvest more come next season
connoisseurs all know the reason
and once the berries have been picked
we face what we would not admit
that each desires more than half
of the berry pile; behold the math
60-40?  70-30?  
Haggling over it just feels dirty...
A contest, a trial, we must hold
a competition that favors the bold
and the victor, the one who bravest dares
can rightfully claim the lion's share!
Watery blast in a plastic bag
smacks the head of quavering hag
erupts upon the wrinkled face
too slow to dodge the Fecal Ace!
...and with downcast heart, I sense defeat
your bag-toss clearly has got mine beat
(I hurled at poor, slow Lefty Blodgett,
but to my chagrin he deftly dodged it...)
So I acknowledge you the one clear winner
and seethe as you savor your dingle dinner.

I put my feces in the mail,
or in a bottle they set sail.
I cannot keep them to myself,
to dry unknown on my old shelf.
The world must see.
The world must know,
that greatness out my butt does flow
The world must smell,
the world must taste
My treasures must not go to waste,
and every year my legend grows
I meet my followers in a grove
oh, at each full moon we gather;
and upon their brow my poo is slathered
the resonant waves it generates
helps to open their chakra gates
the gate of Indra, the gate of Tor
from deep within the spirit's core
their minds and bodies find renewal
and sparkle like a precious jewel
and yet
there are those who'd persecute my flock
and try to land us in the dock
Fools, the men who run this nation
oblivious, to defecation...
I punch my fist into their guts.
It blasts straight through till meat erupts.
Exposing putrid gold within,
I'm like a jinn of shit
akin to Rumpelstiltskin.
Their meaty, greasy innards flop
out their bellies, this filthy slop
will nourish my men with protein power
the war begins within the hour
Scratching at the sphincter?  Yes.
The Fountain of Scwees begins to bless
the faithful with its spicy blast
reminiscent of days long past
when all were free to frolic as such
and Mom packed fresh turds in our lunch.
Back then it was the latest craze
and Elvis, the Beatles, and JFK
would crap in their hands and play all day.
What else?  Wherefore?
Dare you seek the treasure galore?

How about a hog, how about a dog?
How about a baby rotting in a murky bog?
Yes, please, the best please,
their feces never displease.
The fresh breeze carries
the lovely scent of butt cheese.
The swamp baby shit, swarming with maggots
I mix with santorum from the ass of a faggot
fresh from the Saturday orgy...
along with the droppings of horses
and throw in some cow pie and dog pile
that's been festering out in the yard all the while
To top off the brew, I then add the stew
collected from so many public restrooms
where the careless and derelict drop as they please
letting it overflow, spreading disease,
and before the custodian can get to his mop
I'm there with my vacuum, collecting it all
and all of it goes in the pot;
it then sits five days, to properly rot
and ferment in its own natural juices
(Meanwhile, I'm adding occasional deuces)
and then, only then, it is truly achieved
a perfection so rare, you must see to believe
the utopian paragon, true fecal bliss
you feel the desire to give it a kiss
but refrain, oh you must, lest your mind be enslaved
and you devour it all, and go gorged to your grave
like the others before who succumbed to temptation,
the holy disciples of
evacuation.