A Butt Tuba
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Someone on the subway’s playing a butt tuba,
whoever this boob is, his flagellant notes stink.
And when some, borrow or rob, panhandler gets off,
I fine-tune my radar and sit next to the door.
I switch to my doom mood as the farts continue,
I can't tell if it’s a mister or a madam.
Whoever's smelling like a bucket of dumb mud
their pungent odor is worse than dog doo, good God!
I should refer this to someone; it's hard to breathe
it’s getting out of control, and dammit, I’m mad!
When the awful smell follows me to street level
I begin to question, is it, I? It is I!
(A palindrome in each line)
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2018
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