Turds around? Nope—precursor stench.
Were there such a thing as nose speech,
Here is about how it would sound:
“Turn around, take away that stench
To which I ain’t impervious
And evokes for me an overstuffed sty.”
Turkey downed? That can create stench,
Or maybe onions that have been fried—
The result can make water the eyes.
Turn it down, tight thighs can hold in the stench
Before it starts.

Turn around from that awful stench
Is what I’ll do if you’re feckless
And are not stopping that vile
Scourge, with sound, or not, still there’s stench;
And it can render one helpless
And remind one of the cows on a farm.
Slurpy sound’s what comes out of them
As the stuff drops to the land when
They reflexively open up, let fly. . .
Dirty ground is what there is when
They go—you might call it “terroir fried,”
As earth is laced with smelly cow pies.
Turn it down, tight thighs can hold in the stench
Before it starts.

Yeah, you need to hold ’em tight
So you will not be a scenter
And you won’t expel a nose blight
That gets passersby off-center.
Because, let’s face it, you smell like shite. . .
Ain’t aligned with rhinal pleasure.
I can’t take it—that’s why you hear me whine,
“Stanch the raunch that’s launched from paunch to the end of the line;
Hold it in, you can do, and we need not fear a spark
That could set off the power dregs that from butt embark.
I really need you to tight-
en cheeks so there departs no blight.”

Lunchtime—do not dine on appalling foods such
As beans—legumes can make the streams start.
You know it’s up to you:
A total eclipse of a fart.
Or else, close ’em tight so the blight is not rife.
And that way, no aeration embarks. . .
Funkiness at bay. . .
The total eclipse of a fart.

Turnaround blight’s rise,
Turn it down, blight’s rise,
Turn it down and turn off the stench—don’t blow
Out gross and unalloyed flatulence wafting toward me.
Turn around—what I would do when you’d blow
Out stench that’s on the ether buoyed,
Deployed toward me, malodor like Spam.

Turds abound, and in your colon they’re stowed.
It’s not that I am stool-averse:
I’ve shat my fill, dumped as much as you. . .
Turds flushed down—every time you gotta go,
You head off for the shitter,
And then you take the dump in that loo. . .
Turn around—shite time—go in there before you let it start.
Turn around—it’s time to think in turd terms when you fart.

If you can’t hold those cheeks tight,
Turn around and make your exit,
And you won’t expel a nose blight,
Then my rhin site, you won’t vex it.
In folks presence you don’t take a shite. . .
When a mood’s set, wind-break wrecks it.
Clench or wrench yourself hence when it is time;
Stanch the raunch that’s launched from paunch to the end of the line
Or go off to the loo, and there let the wind embark,
But don’t let go the power dregs whose aroma mark
Hangs in the air and do blight
The mood—such deportment ain’t right;
Deport that report out of sight.

When it comes, the time for most galling of funks,
You gotta hold it in or depart.
There’s something you can do:
A total eclipse of the fart.
When it comes, that time, you can blight, make it rife,
Or you can be courteous and smart,
Clench or go away:
And totally eclipse that fart,
A tonal eclipse of the fart.