This is the tale of the tell tale fart
But attention pay, before I start
This poem is no piece of art
I have disclaimed, for my part
So now for the tale of the tell tale fart.
In Pennsylvania, a young man grew
He was christened Edgar Allan Poo.
He would spend hours inside the loo.
But what he did there, no one knew.
For when one sits in a loo, cooped inside
You expect him to have pooped inside.
Yet this man only whooped and cried.
And stumbled around, stooped in stride.
By some mighty woe he was always harried
Some enormous load 'twas that he carried.
Any questions 'pon that he hastily parried
Nonetheless, he was splendidly married.
'Twas expected that his union with his wife
Would, to some degree, lessen his strife
Yet he grew less fonder of his life.
And slashed his wrist with a rusty knife.
After such an attempt at commiting suicide
One would expect him to have immediately died.
But he lived no matter how hard he tried
Hanging, slashing or even cyanide.
It was a miracle, all doctors averred
Far greater than any of which they'd heard.
Like the horse that flew or the dog that purred
Or the moon landing by a swallow bird.
Years, decades, centuries went by
It rained in Atacama, the Amazon went dry
Man sprouted wings and began to fly.
But our young man, now old, refused to die.
Then disaster struck, one fine day
A sunny, bright one, in the month of May
In multitudes, people, on the ground lay
The world smelled of rotten death and decay.
And on this day, full of darkness and dread
Our young man, now old, was found dead.
The city had died from lack of breath
But a satellite had some how captured his death
The pictures showed that E.A.Poo
After 2 centuries, had visited the loo
And raised his arms in delight and surprise
The rest is left to the reader's surmise.