Let Rip the Farts of Love and War

I love to fart, it stands me tall, the raucous rumbling, belly bell, all look around with eyes aghast, to witness such a mighty blast. when before the beak for slander foul, I gave him one that made him scowl, “does Sir require a time alone?” I farted down his crony’s phone. and if I’m lauded, like Le Potomane, I light one to produce a tongue of blue incandescent flame; thus lit, the room and shadows prance, about the room the dragons dance and when in battle we cower from gun, and want to encourage my comrades on, I crouch below hell’s muddy trench, and thus release the devil’s stench then running forward death all around, I fart the bugle’s curdling sound, and to the enemy’s quick dumbfound, so soon we seize triumphant ground you see for me it is no shame, to unleash the belly’s dogs of war, and oft when travelling by first class, I give them a blast from boiling ass when love speaks strong and passion cries, beneath the sheets there are no lies, so ahhs!! or Oohs!! I never start, but let rip a lover’s orgasmic fart look: tis not the wallet, watch or jewel, that creates the jinx, and mocks the fool, a prettier penny lies beneath; tis the fart; and jealous mule, the thief.