The following is a poem written by my Uncle Dick during his time in the RAF. From his surrounding memoirs it appears it was written between himself and a few other officers, with 47 Squadron in Sudan and Eritrea some time between 1939 and 1941. A bit of googling will reveal some very similar poems- who knows how all of this originated. If there are any World War II historians who fancy doing a bit of, um, alternative research, by all means get in touch.
Dick recently celebrated his 100th Birthday and was encouraged to recite this at the party. What a legend. It's too good not to appear online.
I'll tell you a story that's certain to please
Of a Grand Farting Contest at Shitton-on-Tees
Where all the best arseholes parade in the field
And compete in the contest for various shields.
Now some lift up their arseholes and fart up the scale
To compete in the contest for the barrel of ale
But others, whose arseholes are biggest and strongest,
They go in for the loudest and longest.
Now this Easter evening had brought quite a crowd,
And the betting was even on Mrs. McCleod,
For the papers had said in their evening edition
That this lady's arsehole was in perfect condition.
The ladies lined up for the signal to start
And winning the toss Miss jones took first fart.
For, although she'd no chance in a farting display
She'd the prettiest arse that you'd seen in a day.
Next young Mrs Pothole was called to the front
And proceeded by doing a remarkable stunt,
with hands on her hips, and tightly clenched hands
She blew off the roof of the sixpenny stands.
Next came Mrs Pinth who was backed for a place
last year she was placed in the deepest disgrace
for dropping a fart that beat the church organ
She gassed the vicar, poor old Mr Morgan.
But Mrs McLeod reckoned nothing on this
She'd had some weak tea and was all wind and piss
So straining her arse, all opponents defied
She unluckily shit and was disqualified.
Then young miss Pringle appeared mid roars of applause
and promptly proceeded to pull down her drawers
For although she was only four feet tall
She beat the whole lot and outfarted them all.
With hands on her hips she stood farting alone
And the crowd were amazed at the sweetness unknown
The judges agreed without hindrance or pause,
“First prize, Miss Pringle, pull up your drawers!”
She walked to the rostrum with maidenly gait
and took from the vicar a set of gold plates
She smiled at the crowd as they started to sing,
and farted the first verse of God Save the King.