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I didn't write this
Bogey
I sit at my desk in a stupor, My brain starting to decompose, And there on the end of my finger, Sits a bogey, picked fresh from my nose.
I fiddle around with the bogey, Pulling it this way and that, Then I hurl it towards my computer, Where it lands on my screen with a 'splat'.
I look at the bogey before I go home, Where it sits, now dried up, on my screen. It's quite a big bogey, I think to myself, And really, quite pleasantly green.
It's a sick poem but come its about a bogey XD
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