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Pooetry

Crappy Klaxon

A bellowing burst of gas suddenly erupts.
Rudely into the conversation it interrupts.

This blaring klaxon has a deafening echo.
And a matching stench that will stain the art deco.

A look of shame and horror fills my face.
My peers shower me with looks of disgrace.

Such a dreaded sound, my backdoor sour siren.
In front of these friends I’ll never again be smilin’.

Another monstrous trumpeting resounds from my rear.
This build up from my dinner, everyone does hear.

Such a dirty cacophony of honkin’ and tootin’.
I ought to change my name to Fartin’ Raspootin’.

Then comes yet another song from my flatulent flute.
Generously giving the sound of a mighty toot.

Like an emergency loudspeaker broadcasting it’s warning.
My cheeks broke wind again like Satan’s butthole yawning.

It carries this low note long while my cheeks rumble.
I try to laugh it off but my words stutter and stumble.

Buttocks still howling, I go to stand and flee the scene…
Of repeated booming farts, where once was serene.

But as soon as my buttocks lift away from the seat…
The tooting horn from my backside becomes discreet.

Instead in it’s place sounds a slush of muddying flaps.
I realise my undies are now filled with skids and craps.

Pure Pooetry

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