Here comes the end-game drawing up the rear.
The poets said we’d see it sidle near.
But smell it too? The Noxious End is nigh!
Malodor fills the air. Still that’s not why
it’s ending. No, these fetid times got shat
with border skirmish, ethnic this ‘n that
the rights of kings, the revolution’s zeal
for naught. (Our noses lied. Dissent smelt real.)
Prepare thee well for sewer and methane gas
and irony. (The End is near the ass.)
–our whoopee cushions silenced, not by words,
but unctuous swine and bovine farting herds
A whimper or a bang? Nah, more a hiss–
a feast of beans and cud, then pastured bliss.
Oh door to scented paradise, keep shut.
Mere flatulence is loosed. No joke, da butt.