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A crafty young bard named McMahon
Whose poetry never would scan,
Once said with a pause,
"It's prob'ly because
I am always attempting to insert as many extra
syllables into the ultimate line as I
possibly can."
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1
Part 12 of 12
His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
Where they buried the rest of our farter,
With a gravestone of turds
Inscribed with the words:
"To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."
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2
Part 11 of 12
The selection was tough, I admit,
But it did not dismay him one bit,
Then, with ass thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed...
And collapsed in a shower of shit.
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3
Part 10 of 12
It went off in capital style,
And he farted it through with a smile,
Then, feeling quite jolly,
He tried the finale,
Blowing double-stopped farts all the while.
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4
Part 9 of 12
One day he was dared to perform
The William Tell Overture Storm,
But naught could dishearten
Our spirited Spartan,
For his fart was in wonderful form.
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5
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