The Farter From Sparta There was a young farter from Sparta, A really magnificent farter, On the strength of one bean He'd fart "God Save the Queen", And Beethovens Seventh 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. He could whistle, could warble and hum, By constricting the hole in his bum, And make animal sounds, Or fire artillery rounds, With the force of a field cannon gun. The fabulous farter from Sparta, Performed at command by Royal Charter, Did Brahms, Grieg and Mozart, For 'piano and fart', And for an encore he did Bach's Toccata. His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz, He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas. With a good dose of salts He could fart a waltz Or swing it in razzamatazz. He's accompanied Oasis and Blur, And done backing music for Cher, Though his style is obscene, It's been used on big screen, In sound effects on the movie Ben Hur. He'd fart a gavotte for a starter, And whiffle a fine serenata. He could play on his anus The Coriolanus: Ood, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum tah-dah ! His 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. When Sparta's farter was truly on form, His asshole could outplay a French horn, He'd give all day recitals, With the air from his vitals, After a large plate of leeks and some corn. 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 Sullivans Mikado. He could imitate jets supersonic, Or play compositions symphonic, He played Handel's Messiah, He reached top C and higher, But only after a mammoth colonic. A family size can of baked beans, Could fuel the main movie themes, Star Wars and some westerns, Were most often requested, Though the odour was somewhat obscene. Spurred on by a very high wager With an envious German named Bager, He'd proceeded to fart The complete oboe part Of a Haydn Octet in b-major. He could play Holst's Mars and Uranus, By expelling the air from his anus, He did Copacabana, But his Carmina Burana, Was proclaimed a cantus profanus. This man with the musical arsehole, Was asked to perform at a castle, He ignited his gas, Near exploded his ass, And the Count cried out 'Once more, you rascal!' 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. The Count hosted the concert with style, And the queue to get in was a mile, The farter ate leeks, Lived on beans for two weeks, Knowing his farts were on trial. He practised by farting some tunes, Till his arsehole made sounds like bassoons, Symphonies, sonatas, Serenades and cantatas, And the theme from The Mouse on the Moon. He played The Ride of The Valkyries, And brought the whole crowd to their knees, Women fainted and screamed, At The Dambusters theme, And The Flight of the Bumblebee. He farted on feeling quite merry, Did the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies, His farts echoed and swelled, (And so did the smell), And his face went as red as a cherry. With a smell like a heap of manure, He began the William Tell Overture, They gasped as it started, Cheered the farter from Sparta, And soon they were screaming for more. It went off in capital style, As he farted it through with a smile, Then, feeling quite jolly, He reached 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 arse thrown aloft He suddenly coughed.... And collapsed in a shower of shit. One mammoth turd blocked up his arse, Around it no fart could be passed, His bowel filled with farts, From his arse to his heart, And inflated his belly with gas. All at once the poor farter exploded, His expanding bowel overloaded, The room filled with screams, As gas-filled intestines, Rose up to the ceiling and floated, Like a string of long brown balloons, His innards were strung round the room, The odour was ripe, So the Count lit his pipe, And the whole place went up with a BOOM! His bunghole was blown back to Sparta, Where they buried the rest of our farter, With a gravestone of turds Inscribed with these words: "To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr." AJS oct00
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!