You have strolled into Shitespace.
Do not be alarmed, it's quite nice here.
Just kick off your shoes, put your feet up, and have a giggle
in our cosy little haven where nothing matters,
and you're safe from the nasty outside world.
I know a man, a man called Steve.
He wipes his bogeys on his sleeve,
And when his bogeys he has got
He sucks out all his runny snot,
And when his snot starts tasting bitter
Steve starts picking out his shitter.
Crusty bits he'll swallow down
Until his mouth turns autumn brown.
Yes, in his mouth is shit and snot
And crap and piss and grime and grot.
He smells like a rancid chippy
Because he is a sweaty hippy,
Ha ha ha.
We'd like you to judge our Shite by awarding it farm animals.
Please select the farm animal which best expresses your enjoyment
of the poem you've just read.
Note that we are not expecting you to judge our work on how good
or bad it is - we know it's all terrible -
we're only interested in how much satisfaction you derived
from our poetry.
So if you really enjoyed the poem give it a proud cock but if it
really didn't do it for you then give it a piddling pig.