The pound of intestines
Tellin' me that it's near.
That pop-scental motion,
Brings out a need in me,
Hope no one can hear the vent.

It's my midflight transgression,
When I smell it, it's
Worse than the lunch stew.
It's my midflight transgression,
Wafts its way
All way from row 52
Down aisle 2.

Recirculating
Air is getting rank,
Like a septic tank,
Or else the territory
Of a sulfur mine.
I'm bracing my spine.

Staggering with beer and wine,
Attendants start to whine.
Passin' gas inside an airplane--
Passengers reeling
But nowhere to hide from

One more midflight transgression,
When I smell up the
Cabin, which goes, "Whew!"
Second midflight transgression
Wafts its way
Straight through the open vent tubes
Above you.

Gag, gag, gag, gag. . . .