Bunga on the Pot
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the P.R. nine that day,
the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Daph could only fart, and Wiper did the same,
a sickly silence settled on the poo-trons of the game.
A scattered few got up to go; in deep despair the rest
choked down that gorge which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, "if only Bunga could but pinch a loaf of grot.
We'd put up even money now, with Bunga on the pot."
But Sam preceded Bunga, as did also Dave (the twit);
with the former constipated, and the latter can't do shit.
So to that stricken multitude, things grim and grimmer got;
for there seemed but little chance of Bunga's getting to the pot.
But Sam let drop a pellet, to the wonderment of all.
And Dave, with sweaty armpits, tore the paper off the wall.
And when the stench had lifted, and we saw what had occurred:
there was Dave-O safe at second, and Sam a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand butts and more there rose a mighty fart;
it rattled the intestines until some folks even shart;
it pounded every penis and recoiled on every twat;
for Bunga, mighty Bunga, was advancing to the pot.
There was sleaze in Bunga's manner as we all did stare and watch;
there was pride in Bunga's bearing, and a stain in Bunga's crotch.
And when, responding to the cheers, he bared his anal slot,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Bunga on the pot.
Ten thousand eyes did water at the smell from Bunga's hole.
Five thousand throats were gagging as he settled on the bowl.
But, while the writhing plumber ground the plunger to his hip,
defiance flashed in Bunga's eye; a sneer curled Bunga's lip.
And now the rubber-covered tool came hurtling towards the john,
but Bunga sat a-watching it in haughtiness thereon.
Close by the sturdy shitter the tool unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Bunga. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with excrement, went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of AB2K on Dumpster, broke and sore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted that unhappy lass,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Bunga showed his ass.
Within his pale but hairy moon, great Bunga's sphincter shone,
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.
He signaled to the plumber, and once more the plunger flew,
but Bunga still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fuck!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered, "Fuck!"
But one scornful look from Bunga and the crowd was all dumbstruck.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and knew that Bunga wouldn't let his anus close again.
The sneer has fled from Bunga's lip. He looks no longer dapper.
He strains with cruel intensity his ass upon the crapper.
And now the plumber holds his nose, and now he feels the brunt,
for now the air is shattered by the force of Bunga's grunt.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the moon is on the bowl.
The john is flushing somewhere, and the paper's on the roll.
And somewhere men are purging, with joy we have no doubt.
But there's no joy on PoopReport -- mighty Bunga has crapped out!