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,
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