From my colon released,
In a vapor you blanket the room.
From my swampy South-East
You slipped out as though greased;
Here you linger, increasing our gloom.
Born from a feast
That my beltsize increased,
You’re the worst of the anti-parfumes.
If I steady my gaze
In the sting of your haze,
And pretend that I cannot detect you,
Will I doubt enough raise
As to who’s ass malaise
Made their colon upend to eject you?
An age-old tradition, but one could do worse:
I’ll blame you on whomever mentions you first.