A look of concentration
has appeared upon your face,
precursor to an odour foul
that soon will haunt the place.
For now I know that beans for tea
was silly to have done,
as now your evil stomach
is about to have its fun.
It's guffin’ time, the rumble starts
and you, we know, are Queen of Farts.
The dog has quickly run away
though he's quite bad we have to say.
If farty dog has left the room
we know that things will be bad soon.
And here it comes, the awful stench
from the rectum of the guffin' wench,
who had too many beans for tea,
mind you she had the same as me.
So minutes later here we sit,
stinking like a beany shit,
'cos it's guffin' time again
YOU ARE READING
The Tree of Dreams
PoetryRandom poetry and the occasional drabble or dribble of other short random thought from the depths my somewhat bemused brain, or possibly Brian if the schizophrenic misspelt pseudo entity that lives up there is up to his old tricks... poems from the...
