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The talking butthole.

There once was an butthole so hairy and small
It taught itself to talk, and well after all
It practiced and practiced, day after night
Until it could speak with all of its might

At first, its words were harsh, dirty, unkind
It spoke with a stink, that was hard to find
It farted and snarled, it hissed and it cursed
It was a mean kind of butthole, never rehearsed

But as time went on, it started to change
Its words became softer, its stink a mild smell
It learned how to listen, then to understand
It became a better butthole, first hand

Now it speaks with grace, and talks with poise
It's still an butthole, but it's found its voice
It writes meaningful poems, and gets its point across
It's the kind of butthole, that you don't want to toss

So if you are an butthole, down at the bottom
Just remember, you too, can rise and blossom
It might take some time, and some dedication
But in the end, you'll find your own elation
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