The Fartist

We all have, to a lesser or greater degree, something we excell at. My wife seems to think my genius lies in the expulsion of noxious methane gas in syncopatic rythms. As she chased me around the room with bottle of Fabreeze in hand, I recalled a ditty from days past. I have been a long time fan of the limerick. Now although this is a long one, I promise you It is one of the finer examples of the artform and sums up my feelings perfectly. Off to play the tuba, squeeze a duck, whatever...

The Magnificent Farter From Sparta

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.

He'd fart a gavotte for a starter,

And fizzle a fine serenata.

He could play on his anus

The Coriolanus:

Oof, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum tah-dah!

He was great in the Christmas Cantata,

He could double-stop fart the Toccata,

He'd boom from his ass

Bach's B-minor Mass,

And in counterpoint, La Traviata.

Spurred on by a very high wager

With an envious German named Bager,

He proceeded to fart

The complete oboe part

Of a Haydn Octet in B-major.

His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz,

He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas.

With a good dose of salts

He could whistle a waltz

Or swing it in razzamatazz.

Hi 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 ass thrown aloft

He suddenly coughed...

And collapsed in a shower of shit.

His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,

Where they buried the rest of our farter,

With a gravestone of turds

Inscribed with the words:"

To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."