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Shakespearian poopy poetry
To poo, or not to poo, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous poop,
Or to take arms against a sea of poop
And by opposing end them. To die—to poop,
No more; and by a poop to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural poops
That poop is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the poop:
For in that sleep of death nani poops may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us poop—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long and painful poop
For who would bear the whips and scorns of poop,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's poop,
The pangs of dispriz'd poop=, the poop's delay,
The insolence of poop, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat during a weary poop,
But that the stench of something after poop,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, poops the turd,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of poopy shit
Is sicklied o'er with the brown cast of poop,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of poop.
Chad is pretty rad.
moved to correct board.
(12-08-2019, 06:25 PM)castrated Wrote: moved to correct board.
its a poem bro. it belongs in /lit/
Chad is pretty rad.

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