’Tis the foul stench that wafts upon the breeze,
A silent-butt-deadly in the morning:
The smell that doth brown and wilt all the trees,
Shouldst come with a Surgeon General’s Warning.
Or a twenty-one bun salute to something that died,
And telleth thee— don’t shoot! don’t light a match!
So thou knoweth someone hath let one fly;
Gas shall come to pass from out of one’s ass,
And so one can tell that all is not well:
Is it a shift of wit or a whiff of shit?
A healthy man canst not make that kind of smell;
’Tis death to all who get a whiff of it.
And a common truth for all ye who belt it:
That he who smelt it’s the one who dealt it.
Dost tha Colonel’s special blend
Of herbs and spices give thee gas?
Thou be levitatin’ when thou’rt meditatin’
With such a mighty wind to pass.
Every time thou hear’st me, thou shalt agree:
Nothin’ floats a brotha like tha K-F-C!
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Chapter notes: Ode to Flatulence
Chapter end notes: (Scoot getteth off a good one!)
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