Farting Contest

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 100^th 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.