Dad the Ripper

I hardly mind
that my behind
has fallen flab and loose–
What bothers me
is when I pee
I poot the smell of deuce.

A passing stage
or just my age?
It really matters not.
Beyond annoying
are these cloying
clouds of bottom rot.

But just perhaps
these fetid flaps
blow blessings in disguise:
a good defense,
to cheek-dispense
a waterer of eyes.

So I decide
to override
my years of social shaping,
and take revenge
with nasal singe
and my own style of vaping.

An air-turd
in the theater
can free a hundred seats,
and stink-ball
in the shopping mall
can cause a mass retreat.

Who knew my greatest power
would arise from where I’m sour?
From deepest inner being
comes a stench to set them fleeing.

So come on, all you “f”ers,
Smell the heat of hundred heifers!
Toxic gas to rust a zipper–
You can call me Dad the Ripper.



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