limeric contest
 

there once was a man from Bellgrass
whos ball's were made out of glass
when he clanked them together
they played Stormy Weather
and lightning shot out of his ass:lol:

You got it wrong:

"There once was a man from McCrass
Whose balls were made of fine brass
When came stormy weather his balls clanged together
And sparks shot out of his ass."

Funny stuff nonetheless.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who's dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped of his chin
If my ear was a cunt, I could fuck it!

There once was a hermit named Dave.
He found a dead whore in a cave
She was missing a tit
and smelled like shit
But think of the money he saved!

Behold, an excerpt from "The Young Man of Sparta"

There once was a young man from Sparta,
A really magnificent farter,
On the strength of one bean
He'd fart "God Save the Queen",
And Beethovens Seventh Sonata.

He could vary, with proper persuasion,
His fart to suit any occasion.
He could fart like a flute,
Like a lark, like a lute,
This highly fartistic Caucasian.

He could whistle, could warble and hum,
By constricting the hole in his bum,
And make animal sounds,
Or fire artillery rounds,
With the force of a field cannon gun.

His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz,
He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas.
With a good dose of salts
He could fart a waltz
Or swing it in razzamatazz.

He'd fart a gavotte for a starter,
And whiffle a fine serenata.
He could play on his anus
The Coriolanus:
Ood, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum tah-dah !

He could imitate jets supersonic,
Or play compositions symphonic,
He played Handel's Messiah,
He reached top C and higher,
But only after a mammoth colonic.

A family size can of baked beans,
Could fuel the main movie themes,
Star Wars and some westerns,
Were most often requested,
Though the odour was somewhat obscene.

Spurred on by a very high wager
With an envious German named Bager,
He'd proceeded to fart
The complete oboe part
Of a Haydn Octet in b-major.

This man with the musical asshole,
Was asked to perform at a castle,
He ignited his gas,
Near exploded his ass,
And the Count cried out 'Once more, you rascal!'

The Count hosted the concert with style,
And the queue to get in was a mile,
The farter ate leeks,
Lived on beans for two weeks,
Knowing his farts were on trial.

He practised by farting some tunes,
Till his arsehole made sounds like bassoons,
Symphonies, sonatas,
Serenades and cantatas,
And the theme from The Mouse on the Moon.

He played The Ride of The Valkyries,
And brought the whole crowd to their knees,
Women fainted and screamed,
At The Dambusters theme,
And The Flight of the Bumblebee.

He farted on feeling quite merry,
Did the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies,
His farts echoed and swelled,
(And so did the smell),
And his face went as red as a cherry.

It went off in capital style,
As he farted it through with a smile,
Then, feeling quite jolly,
He reached the Finale,
Blowing double-stopped farts all the while.

The selection was tough, I admit,
But it did not dismay him one bit,
Then, with arse thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed....
And collapsed in a shower of shit.

One mammoth turd blocked up his arse,
Around it no fart could be passed,
His bowel filled with farts,
From his arse to his heart,
And inflated his belly with gas.

All at once the poor farter exploded,
His expanding bowel overloaded,
The room filled with screams,
As gas-filled intestines,
Rose up to the ceiling and floated,

Like a string of long brown balloons,
His innards were strung round the room,
The odour was ripe,
So the Count lit his pipe,
And the whole place went up with a BOOM!

His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
Where they buried the rest of our farter,
With a gravestone of turds
Inscribed with these words:
"To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."