It'll ill ye; down in minutes
On the floor ye'll be,
Imploringly
Begging, "Plug the hole of that behind!"

It's stealing all around ye,
So ye place your hand
'round your nose and
Try to belay the smell. . .mighty rancid wind.

When bum-sound gales will fly,
Ye’ll want to hide, won’t smile;
It’s mighty vile—
Out from that airy nook. . .like sty of swine.

Wish he would plug it now
’cause it’s the reekest stink;
’twill make ye think,
“Argh!!!! belay the smell of mighty rancid wind!”

[protracted flatulence]

It pains, this funk; ye grieve, in tears,
’cause from his rear
Out spills skunk-beer
Aroma; ye’re peeved—near out of your mind,

Stand far from this fart
Is where ye want to be—
It’s pong turkey.
Yeah, it’ll make tears well—cry, it’s rancid wind.