La olla

I got a pot full of shit
It's been almost a year since I stopped going to the bathroom for the moment
To put this pot on low heat
And in the fridge, I collect the shit very stealthily
It's reached the top, it's already ten kilos

From left to right I keep stirring
from left to right
and you can't imagine, dude, the stench it gives off

Magical pot, foul nectar
It seems to be cooking now, bubbles of brown pasty feces come out
I gather at the bottom the last dregs
And the gases expand, the stench takes over the staircase
from the attic to the janitor's house

Flies dance, feces bubble with great gusto
and the ones from the third floor throw up their dinner

Hot pot, strong smells
Forty degrees, in the middle of August and the shit boiling
there are fainting spells, suicides, people running
It sizzles, what a smooth texture the cream has
seasoned with boogers and some phlegm

Shit fondue, culinary madness with little Tarzans
such an exquisite succulent delicacy

Voices that insult, they knock on the door
What's going on, I ask the janitor and the president
with bits of poop between their teeth
'The building stinks in an unpleasant way
of excrement and we believe you're to blame'

'Don't be nosy', I tell her, janitor, 'don't be nosy'
I say as I adjust my mask
I got a pot, a foul spring, smelly magic
what a strange hobby coprophagy is