Trumpeting Shart

I awoke in shock to the sound of a fart blast.
Something loud broke my sleep so steadfast.

But the trumpeting fart was my own.
It sounded wet as it was being blown.

Had I sharted from slumber into my bed?
I wanted to know but was filled with dread.

Reaching down would tell me right away.
However the gurk on my fingers would stay.

I decided my pants needed visual inspection.
I envisioned seeing a sickly rancid collection.

But the results were clean and poop-free!
So I leapt back into bed, filled with glee.

The landing was soft but also warm and squishy.
Turns out in the sheets I’d left something fishy.

Pure Pooetry

No comments

You can be the first one to leave a comment.

Leave a Reply