It would light and it ain’t sweet,
and it’s got me in retreat—
ghastly gas has got me scurrying from pong.
Nasty stench spurring me on
makes me glad I’ll soon be gone.
Bid “Bye-bye!” hoping no more will be spawned.

I’m finding I need a rhinal ablution;
getting far away is the solution.
Vile, that wind that hovers above ground.
I’ll pick up and run away;
here I cannot stay,
because this isn’t a nosegay.

I won’t get fumed again!

Emanates from the bum,
then wafts among the throng.
When it reaches to the nostrils, all are appalled.
’cause it swirls up to the brain
to register from whence it came.
It’s a rancid scent that makes its victims sore.

They find that they need a rhinal ablution
’cause of rank posterior pollution.
Vile, that wind that hovers above ground.
they’ll pick up and run away;
here they cannot stay.
And like me they are gonna say:
“We won’t get fumed again! So gross!!”

Pre-movement gas: something that I can’t abide;
it flows in like a garbage-laden tide.
And lighting a taper just wouldn’t be right…
could prime an ignition, all blown from sight.

I’m taking to my feet
to exit expeditiously
after odor hits my face, makes me cry.
All that farting from the cleft
is departing as a blight.
Staying here would mean that I could not take flight.

A departure is the only solution…
escape rank posterior pollution.
Vile, that wind; I cannot stick around
I’ll run to another state,
’cause it won’t abate
Then I will be able to state:
I won’t get fumed again!

Sweet when I slog
to where’s no pong fog.