Trapped Wind

Who would have thought that a man of letters,
Would find himself in chains and fetters,
And instead of singing the praises of spring,
Or copper kettles and paper and string,
I find myself penning what I cannot rescind,
A hymn to the praise of unending wind.

Beans and cauliflower, chips and curry,
It really is a major worry,
My belly’s huge, my ass on fire,
To belch and fart my one desire,
But the wind stays put, it is not shifting,
Stuck where it is, no move, no mixing,

And should I wake up at the ceiling,
I won’t be in a film from Ealing,
So call on Shakespeare, call on Chaucer,
The miller’s wife and farmer’s daughter,
And make for me a belch like thunder,
To let me put this wind asunder.

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Filed under black humor, black humour, comic verse, funny poem, humorous verse, whimsy

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