FART

FART

Clay Hurtubise

2008

 

 

The food I eat, it matters not

In my gut it sits and rots.

From solid it goes to wicked gas

My body says it has to pass.

 

A phhhht here, a phhhht there,

People passing stop and stare.

Their eyes widen and mouths agape,

Strides quicken as they try to escape.

 

Another phhhht and I may faint,

Least will happen is I’ll repaint.

Even my nose says enough is enough

Intestines response is: ”Well that’s tough”

 

Tried all the pills, diets and more,

Now I package it, for the Marine Corp.

Non-lethal bombs, that’s what their called,

But should one leak, everyone’s sprawled.

 

Repackaging them works,

Just one of my quirks.

I consider it my national duty,

My friends, though, consider it fruity.