The waste-waft wind is a vented wind,
A vengeful wind that's birthed and wanders.
And when it blows, don't draw it,
Don't draw it in; rue the waste-waft wind.

In a loathsome crack 'neath tailbone, in back,
You'll hear the bunghole quake.
When it makes that sound, everyone around
For their own sake had best make a break.

Breaking waste-waft wind is a wretched wind,
A rectum wind that's cursed when one bursts.
So when it blows, don't draw it;
An awful din precedes waste-waft wind.

Oh! It vents out there where the ordure's brown;
It bounds from the cleft part.
Arrested by a nose-nettle sound,
You'd better blow; someone's blown a fart.

Gag! The waste-waft wind is a scented wind,
A stenchful wind, a turd's precursor.
So when one's born, don't draw it.
Offal's akin to the waste-waft wind;
A craw-cull din is the waste-waft wind.