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." Send this poem to a friend 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." Send this poem to a friend 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. Send this poem to a friend 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. Send this poem to a friend 4 Part 8 of 12 His basso profundo with timbre so rare He rendered quite often, with power to spare. But his great work of art, His fortissimo fart, He saved for the Marche Militaire. Send this poem to a friend 5
