A word of warning, readers, for this tale is one of caution;
Please heed it well, lest your own tail meet with the same misfortune.
One summer morn a lad named Bud was playing in the field,
the one next to the icecream shop run by old man MacNeill.
He was throwing round the ultra-ball he got last Christmas past
the one with patches green and red, with fins that made it fast.
When suddenly, a gust of wind took hold of his new ball
and carried it across the field and past the playground wall;
and over bush and river, until it was gone from sight
and poor wee Bud stood very still, his face gone white with fright.
For he knew that past the river was a place he could not go:
His parents (and his teachers, too) had always told him so.
“You must never cross the river, Bud!” His parents warned him firmly.
“It’s not a place for children, Bud!” His teacher told him sternly.
And though they had not told him why, they warned him with good reason:
The doodlebugs lived there, you see, and it was stinging season.
What is a doodlebug you ask? Prepare to squirm and shake!
They are a cross between a bee, a spider and a snake.
Their stingers do not hurt you, no, but what they do instead
Is fill you up with air until you swell up bright and red.
But since wee Bud did not know this, he shrugged off all the warnings
And swung across the river, where the doodlebugs were swarming
He found his ball among the bugs, and pulled it out of there
And as he did, an odd sensation pricked his derriere.
“Good grief!” he said, “my bottom hurts! Good heavens, what did that?”
Then suddenly, his bum began to swell up big and fat.
It grew and grew, until his bum was bigger than his room.
And then poor Bud began to float like a hot air balloon.
He floated up into the sky, his calls for help unheeded
For the only ones who heard him were the birds he now impeded.
“Oh no!” He wailed. “How shall I deal with my swollen tailbone?
How will I get back on the ground? How will I get back home?”
And then he felt a rumbling from deep inside his gut
Which twisted round his intestines and down toward his butt.
He’d felt this feeling many times, which gave him an idea:
A way that he could manage to get himself out of here.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, squeezing with his gut,
And tightened up his tummy as he lifted up his butt.
And then, with a ferocious roar that nearly stopped his heart
The air came out of Bud’s bottom in a ginormous fart!
And as it did, his tailbone returned to a normal size
As he floated gently back to Earth, still clutching at his prize.
When Bud touched down, he kissed the ground and promised he would never
Dare cross the river at the field, no matter the endeavour.
So what, I hear you wonder, is the moral of this tale?
What is the message that I hope will ultimately prevail?
It’s actually quite simple, it’s surprisingly forthright:
If you ever come across a patch of doodlebugs, take flight!
But if you happen to get stung, best hope they sting your bottom
because bums are filled with gas, you see, and though it might be rotten,
Farting is the only way to get rid of the swelling
Just squeeze your cheeks and push, and soon enough you will be smelling
the distinctive odour of your gastronomic bottom burp
the smell of freedom as you gently float back down to Earth.
The moral of this story, I admit now with a grin:
Farts of all varieties are better out than in!