Turds day is it now,
does it smell like fresh doo-doo?
Or, do flies like it?
Torrid day maybe,
the streams flow like torrants,
in mindless emails.
Work piled high with crap,
and stuff like bile from their mouths,
vainly repeated.
The turd words spin round,
just like something flushed away,
and they still can smile.
It was a bad day,
I lost it, like a balloon,
that got blown away.
I regathered well,
and I broke the spell like glass,
and a strange peace came.
It is demonic,
said one, and like a sane one,
laughing at their words.
