Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.15.228.200

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Mrs Trafer, in need of assistance,
  attended her surgery hence;
stricken by swelling of stomach
  and critically vile flatulence.
She cleared the waiting room swiftly,
  as her wind drummed a tune on the chair;
from potential of asphyxiation
  she soon was the only one there.
Her doctor, he listened in silence
  as her grim tale of woe was begun;
each work punctuated by rasping
  after making it's way off her tongue.
After several minutes duration,
  the doc bade her take off her clothes;
she lay on his couch, her behind hot and bare
  wreaking hideous offence to his nose.
The doc said: "I sure see your problem,
  I think I have just what we need."
He left then returned with long pole and hook,
  his expression contorted and weird.
Mrs Trafer, she shrieked in abhorrence,
  let rip with a volley of air:
"You're not touching me with that dirty great thing,
  whoever you are, I don't care!"
"This isn't for you," said the medic.
  "Dear lady, I beg, have no fear.
This device is to open a window
  for it stinks to high heaven in here!"

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required