Meet the mad, manic, Mister Murgatroyd
An undynamic blistered humanoid
A curred curmudgeon you don't want to meet
In a bar, back alley, or dead end street
He's a filthy, flagrant, flatulent fart
Sewer rat mind and tarantula heart
Cleaves cuddly kittens, feeds them to guppies
Pet pranks the pet shop, punting the puppies
He's our white whale and our snake in the grass
A demon from hell, one pain in the ass
His black, rotten heart's beyond all belief
We need good karma to offer relief
Slurp burping some soup, soup wouldn't swallow
Burp slurping for breath, death would soon follow
A lone chicken bone was lodged in his throat
His face had changed tone and started to bloat
No one there for the Heimlich maneuver
Cuz no one cared from here to Vancouver
No smelling salts would be administered
No certificate of death was registered
They scrambled his brains to stop his last twitch
Then scraped his remains, dropped him in a ditch
A soulless soul and one sorry old sot
Heavens to Murgatroyd?... Heaven thinks not!
Platitudinous ponderosity
All these nouns sound so silly
A bawdy outward display from ostentation
A twist or fold from overt placation
An act, an instance or state of expansion
Increase in size from flatulent action
Assuming what is not natural or real
A false display of affectation or zeal
Pretension and haughtiness
It’s distastefully adorned with gaudiness
Promulgating esoteric cogitations
Articulating psychological observations
Ingesting superficial sentimentalities
Beware of platitudinous ponderosities
Resolution:
(And to all those who attempt to fleece
I have made a call to The Dream Police
And if you must know, his name is Rick
And he’s in band called Cheap Trick)
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
Could there be anything sweeter,
than our little dog named Fartina,
I wanted to see less of wretched in-laws,
they no longer come over because,
the gaseous funky green cloud,
emitting from Fartina makes me so proud.
I dare say we no longer have mice,
who now stay outdoors, how nice.
When Fartina goes to the vet,
it's a sure bet-
the leery vet techs yell, "Fartina's here!"
and the snooty lady in the waiting room
with the poodle holds her nose, oh dear!
At our family birthday party,
Fartina decided to get frankly, farty.
Our guests were all in a dither,
their faces crinkled, then quivered.
Til, lo and behold, a knock on the door,
pesky political solicitors once more!
Well, lovely Fartina took care of that-
a silent savage air biscuit commenced,
and our unwelcome visitors quickly
vaulted over the fence.
These days bad news travels fast,
but the flatulent antics of Fartina
makes laughter last. ~
Turning into a tree did not happen instantly
It takes a lot of time, space and mystical energy.
The huntsman saw it happen, the mushroom hunter too.
Both had no idea that she was my missing cousin Sue.
Sue had always wanted to be an elm, hickory or oak.
The rest of us knew her heart, this was in no way a joke.
She spent so much time in the forest, she grew some roots.
We no longer have to tolerate her smelly flatulent toots.
The musical was near ready to start
When someone let off a rip roaring fart
The smell was horrific
All had a sniff of it
‘Twas a bummer of an ass drummer’s fine art.
The show opened with a trumpet fanfare
As the audience were gasping for air
The one that had farted
Had finished what started
Loose poop ran everywhere from the goofs chair.
It was certainly a roof raising poop
Putrid poop much too watery to scoop
A runny stream of yuck
Those sent to mop upchuck
So uncouth for the enterprising troop.
The show stopped when cleaners needed a drink
They had to quit work because of the stink
Pooper was shown the door
But he farted once more
And the audience had tears on the blink.
So then the music commenced and played on
But the spell was broken, magic was gone
One by one people left
With hearts sadly bereft
Gone with gust of a flatulent gas bomb.
I once belonged to a garden shed
it had a small window you could look inward into it.
There I sat smoking a funky tobacco and
cleaning my fingernails
with a small gun metal pocket knife.
Occasionally I hum the La Marseillaise
I am an exiled Paddy not a Frenchie
but I do grow garlic and to this day
pine for those large English pickled onion
that the limeys eat with their fish and chips
and the frogs despise.
The shed is small enough
to accommodate several cats
or one overweight flatulent bulldog.
Now I keep no cats, and the dog
is buried in another part of that faraway garden.
I once composed poems in that very shed,
those scribblings are long defunct
and debunked.
It's quite legal to kill poems
when their only purpose
is to litter up a small space in your head
as if you were a cramped, overstaffed shed.
There’s a global inflation problem
everywhere lungs are puffed up
heads are swollen.
Balloons increase in volume overnight.
The cost of rubber bands
has been stretched to its limits.
We recall sadly the heady days of deflation,
when shrinkage gave us more space
to spread, to drink our fill
of a less bloated air.
Politicians and pronouns
are loudly popping
empty suits and Stetson hats
billow and blow more than we can
know.
We see the mushrooming clouds
of bluster and bluff from afar.
The world pumps on way too hard
continents expand beyond their land.
The sky busts out of its high wide window.
Soon we shall see
how it will be before the big bang
as we escalate into fat flatulent globs
and awfully slow, bulky, bouncing blimps.
On your pale hard tummy, lined up so neat I row,
with the queens permission bloomers in plastic on E Bay.
Those spears and swords used as pens, two brown, one pink and deep cobalt that blue...
You reach out to rediscover the other I am that wandering traveler
Scribbling tonight in frantic haste covered in your yellow Van Gogh paste.
Are you sneaky and secretive in your nutritive contemplations.
Do you want to wander under the stars for a little while?
Between the pulse of the sun today and light Tommie is heavy and full this night.
Basking golden in a silence that will never leave upon awaking then woman thus come when it does.
Imagining all kinds of your imaginings...
Lips between those short Greek words that only you could find monotheist use for, alas because of you, I squirm.
And you and they on some named flatulent horse of a book.
Look at me and it comes in a hurry blurry haze all over us
and when I do you as want by your will, I am properly twisted
Let’s have a picnic I said! All eager and stuff.
My refrigerator was bare, which was a bit rough.
By the time my guest arrived I had baked beans and ham.
And a surprise guest, my flatulent grandma, Old Gram.
She tooted all the way to Liberty Fireworks Park in the car.
To my blind date’s credit, he did not give one hardy har har.
He also carried our basket, our chairs, and a blanket for two.
She and he sat right down on it, and I did not know what to do.
You sure brought enough stuff, my blind date said in amazement.
Hotdogs, chicken, steak, chips, and six desserts – due to my craze-ment.
I had forgotten the drinks, so we sent him out to the local nine eleven.
The picnic was hilarious, and we stunk to high heaven.
the dogs were happy
did not have to dig deep
in bomb craters and
makeshift graves
they licked at pulverized bones
and liquefied brains
slurped up the proceeds of war
and roamed the street
sluggish and flatulent
saliva dribbled as well
from the industrial military complex
fused joy with sore fingers
from counting the money
Dmitri wondered
what had become of his folks
and where the flowers had gone
before he pegged his rag doll
to a skull bone that floated
in a sewer of lost hope
his young soul was confused
with reality and fake news
and yet his scarred mind
was never far from revenge
as he waded through carnage and destruction
he found remains of his pet
and smeared a bloody reminder
on his feverish forehead
picked up a land mine
and bode farewell to one of his arms
because the weapon exploded
never one to cease with belligerent ease
she could not resist
her favorite re-fried beans ~
severe wind warning
A flatulent lady named Fran
Had farted whilst sat on the can
Her poor husband said phew
I KNOW you followed through -
Please turn on the expel air fan!
What goes in, must come out … be very mindful of what foods you consume!
Charlie Hai-Lim-Ku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Charles Messina
01/25/22
Fannie Strumpet is a flatulent floozy
With each wiggle her rump lets out a doozy
She blows out so much gas
Foul vapor from her a$$
It's asphyxiating and makes me woozy
Fannie lets 'em rip without hesitation
When I point a finger in accusation
She points hers back at me
and laughs saying, "Phew Wee!"
I'm tempted to enact strangulation
I threatened to have the woman arrested
Indecently walking around bare breasted
She farted in my face
Through her panties of lace
I think I was infected and molested
One night Fannie was with a man she'd just met
When she tooted he left, much to her regret
Rectal fumes exploded
He screamed, "You're corroded!"
Her tail expels toxins like a gas jet
Fannie saw a doctor of proctology
She farted without making an apology
She disgusted him so
He said, "Madame, just go.
You're a noxious threat to world ecology!"
I don't fear being assaulted by her smut
She was sued; the case was open and shut
The streets no longer stink
Cuz Fannie's in the clink
For hiding lethal weapons in her butt
October 1, 2021
May the Gas Be With You-Farts Part 2 Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
yonder tree so falls
being cut down trimmed and all
saw just let er rip
~
bubbling boiling clog
having an upset stomach
flatulent just gas
~
rooted gases brews
holding back stomach hard pangs
past gas let er rip
~
race start to finish
get on, your mark get set, go
start just let er rip
7/1/21
FOR LET ER RIP CONTEST
Sponsored by: John Lawless
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 5 0 0 0 5 7 5 0 0 0 5 7 5 0 0 0 5 7 5
Total # Syllables: 68
Total # Lines: 21 (Including empty lines)
Total # Words: 57
I'm Olive, a once flatulent cow.
Spinach is all I eat now.
That silly green grass
is a thing of the past,
for a new wind is blowing this hour.
To methane reduction all power!
If you're a cow too,
show assent by a moo.
Comment:
What could be odder
than this switch to new fodder?
Sub Categories
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