Are you sure you want to open the box?
Not a type of poem I'm generally called into writing, this is my attempt at a humorous poem about breaking wind. Yes, yes, we all do it - some of us in very silent but utterly deadly ways. Farts smell - one of life's most beautiful and wondrous things that... oh, to hell with it - I just can't summon up the muse for bodily functions. But if you want fart poems, you've got fart poems. Cue the muse of farts:
You sit there just holding it in,
but the pressure just builds up within,
you don't want to pop one,
- it may be a hot one! -
so now you're all tensed up in a grin.
The pressure is mounting too fast,
your stomach fills up with the gas,
you suck it back up,
and the pain hits your gut,
but you're glad that the moment has passed.
You thought that you'd had all your luck -
that the wind had all gone from that suck,
but the pain grows once more
and with so loud a roar
it comes out with a fountain of muck.
For anyone who's still here - I'm really sorry. The whole idea of writing a literally "dirty limerick" hadn't occurred to me until the last stanza. If anyone's put off by poo jokes in their rhymes, then I apologise, I really do. For the person who asked me to write a fart poem - I'd like to say thank you. You really have opened up a whole new way of thinking and writing for me and I hope all my poetry is as beautifully disgusting and dirty as this particular fart limerick.