Flatus: To Clear The Air Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

When not so can you but grin and bear,
Let me here try and clean some air.
There's no soul so blessed by heaven
Free from it all— man or woman!

One may swallow too much air bubble,
It may be that maw-minted carbon gas,
Methane or hydrogen calling your ass,
Life's fair at times or none at all.

But what's the source of that stale stink?
Well, everyone has one's own bouquet,
Unique, every flatulence imprint,
Be it a loud trump, toot, or a jet spray.

But how much wind normal is?
A tough call, but may be ten to twenty
Toots may make a man feel at ease,
A mean of twelve for men seem aplenty.

And what's the average for women?
Their tendency being to suppress,
The figure flings around seven,
Yet, flatus is no one's friend I guess.

And now let's talk about volume.
There are two main types: loud and proud,
Or silent and deadly a plume,
But air let out is always in shroud.

Yet, greater the volume of air,
Greater the pressure, louder be noise,
Louder the noise, greater seem the joys,
Dull be a discreet trump's shush affair!

Yet, beware of fair sex's pungent air—
An open secret, experts often share!
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Tongue-in-cheek |27.09.2019|