Brown Muse Floating

My muse is a poopy, she comes to me strong;
The smell in the room makes bad poetry flow.
My husband peeks in and says “hon, that’s just wrong.”
I push out the poetry each day, you know.

The smell in the room makes bad poetry flow.
I sit on a toilet to type out the words.
I push out the poetry each day, you know.
My muse just gave birth to ten little turds.

I sit on a toilet to type out the words.
Sometimes I grunt with the effort to reek
My muse just gave birth to ten little turds
Flushed to the finals whose sewer I seek.

Sometimes I grunt with the effort to reek;
Together my muse and I work hard to suck,
Flushed to the finals whose sewer I seek.
My muse rides my ass through the bad poet muck.

Together my muse and I work hard to suck,
She feeds me bad images, rhythm, and rhyme.
My muse rides my ass through the bad poet muck
Bad poetry seems like some sort of crime.

She feeds me bad images, rhythm, and rhyme.
The words fart forth loudly upon the blank screen;
Bad poetry seems like some sort of crime.
The judges round here are notoriously mean.

The words fart forth loudly upon the blank screen;
Smacking-down cowpies on writing dot com.
The judges round here are notoriously mean.
“Stinketh” they told me, pa rom pa pa pom.

I’m smacking-down cowpies on writing dot com,
My husband peeks in and says “hon, that’s just wrong.”
“Stinketh” they told me, pa rom pa pa pom;
My muse is a poopy, she comes to me strong.