Poo on the Carpet (A post modern exploration of 21st century single suburban life) AKA my first poem )
Why’s there a turd on my carpet?
Was it me? I thought I just farted?
Why didn’t this next line, rhyme?
Oh it did? It was just a disembarkment from what the previous two lines started.
I’m obviously not the smartest alarmist.
Despite the size of what lies in my undergarment.
But this still doesn’t clear up who pooed on my carpet.