We Call Them Farts

We call them farts, toots, and poppers

Rump rippers when they are whoppers

But let it out, don't hold it in,

That's when the fun begins

Launch a fis* under the covers

And the stink will really hover

Yes, you can hotbox your brother,

Your sister, your friend, even mother!

Launching a space ship takes training

But a fart rocket is always waiting

Fizzing, hissing, creeping, reeking

From your bum, they come squeaking

Cut the cheese, break the wind

Play your loud butt violin

Free them in a public place

With a pal, a proomp-ful race

So next time you let one fly

Remember: we told you why!

(*fis = fart in Norwegian)

© Taraneh Ghajar Jerven