The terriblest turd
Now Freud was a man who knew a thing or a No 2.
Turds have haunted our dreams for millennia
Roman Soldiers doing it through a hole in a plank in Chester
Some things never change.
An abiding memory I have, of a clutch of turds, was looking down through a hole in the very same plank at the National Eisteddfod in Rhuthun in 1973.
The septic ditch hadn’t been emptied for a while and little brown Michelin men were struggling to compete,
from the Prifardd’s to the Policeman’s.
Shit, Pooh, Turd, Dump, Cachiad cont!
What goes in, must come out,
with sweetcorn and carrots especially if you haven’t eaten any.
I am not a leisurely turd man. I am an in an out man.
Not for me a newspaper crossword and cigarette.
I eat quickly, I shit quickly.
Thought you should know.
My days of smelly ones are over.
I’m a constipated kind of guy.
The goats on the Great Orme would be jealous of my offerings.
Little bullets that could go in pea shooters or catapults.
"What about you?" Said the narcissist to the fly.
"You look like a toxic kind of guy."
What kind of excretera shoot out of your rear end?
"Mr Whippy nine coilers" said his friend.
Do you take a look or flush it while pressing send?
I’m ashamed to admit but once I did shit in the street.
It was the cider you see.
I was about a mile from home and early dawn.
The dropping of kecks to the sound of a bicycle wheel.
I had a reach around cos when you’re drunk
you wanna cop a feel.
Runny old stuff,
I stood up to the sound of the Wurzels playing a riff.
Duw, God mun, cider shits dunt half whiff.
I bring this confessional to an end
The terriblest turd doesn’t do U bends.
- Further Reading
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