The Fart

We eat our food to keep us strong,
But Oh my goodness what a pong

Because food when it’s going down,
Makes air bubbles all nice and round

 

Along the tubes the process goes,
The grumbling in our tummy grows

Until at last it nears the end,
It hovers at the final bend

 

We’re conscious of the people round,
And do not want to make a sound

Our muscles keep our cheeks shut tight,
Escaping air has such a fight

 

As it passes through the cheeks,
It doesn’t only make a squeak

The air now seeing light of day,
The trumpet voluntary it plays

 

All those around us look to see,
Who made that noise? It wasn’t me!

Come on own up, who made that din?,
We just sit smugly with a grin