THE FARTA FROM SPARTA

Boom

There was a young fellow from Sparta.
A really magnificent farter.
On the strength of one bean
He’d fart “God Save the Queen,”
And Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
He could vary, with proper persuasion,
His fart to suit any occasion.
He could fart like a flute,
Like a lark, like a lute,
this highly fartistic Caucasian.

This sparkling young farter from Sparta,
His fart for no money would barter.
He could roar from his rear
Any scene from Shakespeare,
Or Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado.
Nobody could play the classics finer,
Or swing it in razzamatazz.
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.

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.
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.

The selection was tough, I admit,
But it did not dismay him one bit,
Then, with his ass thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed…
And collapsed in a shower of shit.

His name, of course, was Carter.
The words inscribed on his tombstone

“To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr.”


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