Windy farts

I know, who writes a poem about farting? It is a hilarious topic, though.

Sorry, my arse just had a burp,
It’s lucky it wasn’t a slurp,
That would need a dash to the bog,
And likely mean dropping a log.

Then there’s the toot like a car horn,
That sounds like your meal is reborn,
It’s a deep, gusty rumbling blast,
That will scare people walking past.

Then there’s the silent but deadly,
A stinker in your farts medley,
You’ll try to avoid owning up,
While trying hard not to blowup.

Next, there is the famous squeaker,
That you hope isn’t a leaker,
At first, you believe you escaped,
But then your arse cheeks are reshaped.

Do we dare mention it? That one.
The one that means you’ve been outrun,
The most deadly and toxic shart,
Easily the worse of type of fart.

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