I’m 30%
farts.
I figured it
out.
Last night,
as I sat,
on my couch,
farting.
I’m only 70%
man,
and of that
70%,
60% is
water. My blood
is 92% water,
My brain and
muscles are 75% water.
My bones are
about 22% water,
but the rest
of me,
is farts.
A regular
King Toot.
Gastro
Dominus Rex.
The music of
my ass,
my stinky
children of the night,
howling,
roaring, sputtering,
making me
laugh in spite of
how gross.
I’m Vladimir
Pootin,
of my own
private Russia,
in the
reluctant bachelor pad,
tree top
high over the streets.
Where my
flatulence goes unheard.
So I’m
mostly farts, and I’m sure
you are too.
We’re all little methane
pumps
carving out our own little clouds
of poison
when no one is looking or
near-by.
Unless you
have friends who think it’s
as funny as
we do and we become a
veritable
horn section of some
symphony played
in memory of meals
once eaten.
We’re all
just farts in the breeze,
in a
philosophical sense. Some of us are
loud,
stinky, sloppy, sweaty, quiet, mousy,
aggressive,
hilarious, dangerous, and we never
last longer
than the breeze blows.
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