Long Break wind Poems
Long Break wind Poems. Below are the most popular long Break wind by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Break wind poems by poem length and keyword.
Joseph Pujol, Flatulist
1/6/1857 - 8/8/1945
He started working as a baker
And ended up being the same
But for nearly thirty years he
Enjoyed international fame.
Using his natural talent
For quite a long while
He entertained the elite
In his own unique style.
He could break wind at will
With superb sound control
Wore a special pair of breeches
With an appropriately placed hole
And, with a series of tubes
Could play tunes on a flute
Blow out a distant candle
Imitate a duck or coot.
He gave delight to millions
With his travelling show
Cheered and feted wherever
He was invited to go
He couldn’t compete with
The noise of the first Great War
So he retired back to his shop
To become a baker once more.
So, All hail le Petomane
The man who made of it an art,
And added respectability to,
The discreetly dropped fart.
Before crowned heads of Europe
At the height of his glory
Sadly the modern world has
Almost forgotten his story.
How shall I begin,
we say we're not a couple,
but we had been living together
since I don't know when.
Why I can tell you how the day will go
by the way she breaks wind.
Now I'll say good morning,
no matter which end of her speaks first.
She'll excuse herself
and run off to the bathroom,
for some water
and the medication in her purse.
Being a man,
I'll at least open a window,
and wonder which end
of her is more intelligent.
You see with me
She doesn't waste any time
speaking her mind,
So, as a gentleman.
I only listen to the end that wears lipstick.
Now I've been told that a lady,
doesn’t fart or break wind, they either
poot, pass gas or lose their manners.
But if you ask me it all smells the same.
As she walks around
making her little musical sounds.
It has the added side effect of us
not needing an exterminator.
As a man, blessed with a poor since of smell.
My need to ventilate the room as you can tell,
is more to for the health of my house plants.
Who are at this moment
trying to jump out the window.
Now don’t get me wrong,
she is a lovely woman.
Her figure and grace
I will describe
as poetry in motion.
She moves with a carefree coordination
that would make you a fan
of her ability to walk and chew bubble gum.
It’s like Wrigley’s invented
chewing gum just for her.
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder Poetry Contest
Crystol Woods
Her man friend, grey, over the hill, and older
He's cheesy, conning, plain, and a freeloader
She's in her twenties and smart
Her friends ask why this old fart
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Her friends are so puzzled and think something smells
They even ask what happened to her brain cells
Break wind and smell the roses
Please don't take his proposes
She followed her own heart and the wedding bells
For someone else's trash is another’s treasure
Who are we to point and object, and measure
Maybe her man has a good side
And she's in it for a short ride
She's free to do what strikes her whim and leisure
‘Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
What I wear and you gather into you,
become a language neither of us know,
but comprehend in mouse-tracks of deduction.
You read grease and engine oil, as if grease and engine oil
were two parts of a book left out in the wet,
a chemical patois revealed by an inborn knowledge
of petroleum pipes, and the long-distance howls
of Alaskan wolves.
If I break wind, you run to me, body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating a smudged paragraph or two into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention with a fixed gaze,
(No, Timmy has not fallen down an abandoned mine shaft),
you are just staring at my next question,
willing to jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
Tales of muddy boots, the flash-fiction of urine trails,
(hers and her canine buddies, not mine),
the breezy gossip of each rabbit hole.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes,
idioms cresting now on her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
At work it was slack- not much to do,
The boss was out on the prowl.
We have to look busy no matter what
His face was all of a scowl.
I had the misfortune to pick up a paper
A paper someone bought for their break,
The boss he saw- and he descended on me
The shock made my knees begin to quiver and shake.
His name was Marsh but we called him Swampy
A more evil man there never was…
I expected to end up like a corpse from Pompey
When to his office he dragged me because.
The fear made me shake
And wind I did break
The smell permeated through the air…
He stood looking at me but I could see-
to ask me he never would dare…
My lips began to twitch, my nose began to itch
What on earth was I going to do?
He opened the door pushed me out to the shop floor
The shock made me-
nearly drop a poo...
I heard a big gasp
He took a deep breath in at last
I ran off before he caught me again.
The lesson I learnt
I know now why matches are burnt
In small closets all over the land…
But as I don’t smoke, when I break wind I choke
As I never have matches to hand.
From that day forth
Matches are in my pocket henceforth
Swampy can catch me on a skive if he does like
But he never has-he avoids me because
When he is around I get out the matches and strike….