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.
