He likes to make a lot of noise
Offending's one of his main joys
And flatulence is, to him, an art
So he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Beans are the weapon, of his choice
Through which he speaks in thund'rous voice
You're doomed to surrender from the start
If he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Any room he is in, he'll clear
As each nose learns the meaning of true fear

He'll make you think that something's died
You'll try to run, but you can't hide
He smells just like dog poo "a la carte"
When he strikes...like Thunderfart.

If you're stuck in a lift, with him
Hold your breath, or your will to live will dim

He never stops with only one
His farts go on and on and on
The seat of his pants he'll blow apart
When he strikes...like Thuuunn...derrrr...FAARRRTTTT!