Magic, Pooetry, War


Morning breaks on a fartless sky,
The promise of sunset naught but a lie,
The eggs being served were long foretold,
Now being consumed by young and old.

The first rumbles were met with mirth,
Until clothes were torn under growing girth,
The first fecal gas let go with a whistle,
Obliterating the top of a nearby thistle.

A global wind-song started with a groan,
Sounding like a shitty saxophone,
They farted underground, they farted on the heights,
Of any solid brown there was no sight.

Soon the planet was filled with dread,
The air now unbreathable as thick as bread,
Out in the street flesh sloughs from bones,
People uncontrollably farting in their homes.

Great explosions lit from open flames,
Adding more danger to the gas that maims,
With a collective sigh humanity did deaden,
The end of days, the fartmageddon.

By Guest Pooet, The Poorophet

Pure Pooetry

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