Some like to hold it in, building up the suction,
Others like to release in a full scale eruption,
But I admire those who fail to lift a leg,
Quite how they do it is a case for Mystic Meg.
The odour is horrific, the natural born gas,
A twenty pint release towards the back of mass,
The guilty shifts uneasily, says a quiet prayer,
He who smelt it dealt it, surely that's not fair.
There is little ping but boy there is a pong,
Happening at mass there must be something wrong,
Worse is to come, there is the follow through,
It certainly isn't me, it has to be you.
Silent but deadly, flatulence at its best,
Ten out of ten passes every test,
Open the window, open the bloody door,
Before the feared assassin begins to strike once more.