Early Morning Attack. By CpSingleton © 2014
Underneath the eiderdown,
Where it’s snug and cosy,
There’s a bubbling in the rear part
That’ll blast out less than rosy.
It’s nothing like a tootle-pip,
Nor even like a beep.
It’s more like a fog warning
That wakes you from your sleep.
The aroma that can follow it,
Lands nowhere near a “sweet”
It’s nothing like a flower garden
Or the warmth of roasted meat.
This stench is the death of man!
A ripeness found in rot.
How can such a foulness come
From any human bot?!
Blasted forth with childish grin and
A very cheeky giggle.
A waft of eiderdown is made
Along with naughty wiggle.
To him it smells like chocolate,
To her a rancid pond!
Her nose and lungs far too clogged
To fervently respond!
The hellish stench may linger,
Trapped beneath the sheets.
Her nostrils stuffed with fingers,
In case his rear repeats.