Sometimes you think you’re smart,
when you look around before you fart.
Who to blame for this dastardly deed,
“it wasn’t me you instinctively pleed.
Then you try to blame the dog,
and make your way up to the bog
There you crouch in your solitude,
straining and hoping for some to petrude.
Then all at once like shots from a gun,
you try to reload but the bullets have gone.
You reach for the paper and to your dismay,
it was on the shopping list you forgot yesterday.
You tare a strip from off the wall,
caus’ wallpaper’s better than no paper at all.
Sometimes when you let off a speculative fart,
it ends up much wetter than it seemed at the start.
And as it runs down from the nick of your arse,
you stamp your feet expertly in the long grass.
You shrug your shoulders and weigh up the cost,
of creating for nature some lovely compost..