We all know that ‘special feeling’
One that doesn’t bear repeating,
But it does, and life’s a blast,
Flatulance, or more politely, gas.
We are the food we eat, it’s said
By some bright spark with a swollen head,
Fragrance sweet, or stinky foul,
Tums and backsides in unison growl.
It’s not acceptable in company,
Red faced fast exit to spend a penny,
Sit on the throne and let it all out,
‘What the hell is that?’ A familiar shout.
We grin and try to laugh it off,
Choose not to notice that choking cough,
Apologise with a nod and a shake,
Leaving a waft in our ample wake.
Baked beans do it, sprouts as well,
The guilty party is hard to tell
When there’s three of you and one lets rip,
No-one is likely to own up to it.
But just a couple and one of them knows
That fragrant whiff is not a rose,
But love is in the air they say,
So just pass the deoderising spray.