Life is farting while I’m mowing
Queif and burp a symphony
Let the wind in grass a’growing
Blow like farts all over me.
Poems and cats are fornicating
Oddly distant in the past
While the things are complicating
The things I sing about my gas.
These things, the things I sing,
Ring and jingle, tingling
Whipping, hissing, snapping, popping,
Piping like a Russian King.
And in the end, the world, alas,
Rides like skid stains on my ass.