We were at the cinema today watching “Ferdinand.” It was good. By “good” I mean that it was adequate enough to keep my ten-year-old autistic daughter, Sophie – who is normally agitated at an atomic level – relatively still.
There was one very tender part in the movie, where the entire cinema of fifty-or-so families quietened down and then…
“Fart does not do it justice,”
She did an arse-raspberry
An extended R-rated trailer
for a poo that was soon to be.
“Maybe they won’t know it was her?”
then I saw
that she had lifted up both feet. Way, high up above her head
with a hand upon each cheek
This evening, ladies and gentleman
my daughter will be playing
a bumhole symphony
You might know the first movement,
It’s a little ditty called,
“Oh My God, What Did She Eat?”
Because, “smell” does not do it justice,
It would have made a binman weep
The people who were sitting close to us
as suddenly, it reached
in through their noses
and down, deep into their souls
extinguishing every last cubic inch
of all the joy they’d ever known.
There are days when I would have been ashamed
There are days when I would have run
But today, I turned to the lady beside me
and said, “I’m sorry, but you know,
that’s not even close
to the worst one she’s ever done.”
Feel free to share this, like a good fart.