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