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If you hear the sound of rat-tat-a-tat
It's not a woodpecker or a chattering cat
Tis George F. Latulence an aristocrat
Playing ping pong with his gold crested bat.

A competitor and show-off he deems to be
Dresses each day in his noble finery
Pantaloons his normal fancy day wear
His ancestry, finery, regalia, style flair.

He never shares glory or plays with a partner
Winning trophies for himself, what he is after
Agile and swift, rarely points he would miss
The downside came, when you did get that whiff.

To gain advantage, a parp he would do
Clenching bum cheeks, in case he followed through
High class energy foods for his body to sustain
But his parping was every one else's nose bane.

George on first serve, parped, as he hit the ball hard
Swiftly attacking, George butt did bombard
In that spilt second threw off his opponent
Point gain to George, aided by his flatulent moment.

Silent and deadly they all came out fast
Odourous gas from George nuclear fueled ar$e
If one made a noise he'd give a loud grunt
That was his bum burping cover up stunt.

Knew there was trouble when audiences pulled faces
Some even fainted, brave stayed in their seat places
George didn't care, just wanted top podium status
His methods and thinking obnoxiously atrocious.

Audience faces were different shades of green
People were swaying, some even vomiting.
He called it his ping pong, parp-crafty-art farts
Next point to win, final round about to start.

The ball went to and fro like a speeding fast bullet
George, with match point, he was about to secure it
Hitting an ace, made a spark, that caused a boom blast
Left the audience with mix feelings of relief and aghast.

Breaking news of his death headlines did broadcast
Even able to download from what's called a podcast
George F. Latulence died from a blast from his ar$e,
He blew up one too many, too dense and not sparse.


May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2 Poetry Contest

Sponsor  Chantelle Anne Cooke

Written   07.10.21
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