THE GAS MAN

As it's my birthday today, I thought I'd give you a poem wot I wrote.               I hope you enjoy it.

Mr Jeremy Harty lived in Dorchester Towers,

A retirement home that was surrounded by flowers.

He’d lived there for six months, since vacating his house,

After the sudden demise of his long-suffering spouse.

The Hartys had been married for thirty-six years,

Through ups and downs and quite a few tears.

No children were born in the years they were wed.

“It’s too risky a venture,” Mrs Harty had said.

She had good reason for not wanting an heir,

In light of her husband’s biological affair.

But she remained by his side, despite his malaise,

And he stuck with her to the end of her days.

She had a nasal problem (which suited her well)

That shielded her from the unusual smell.

Some days the stench was awful, but that didn’t matter –

She stuffed herself with cream cakes and got immeasurably fatter.

Her bulk was enormous and her clothes were specially made –

Shipwrights made her shoes on the docks of Belgrade.

Her dresses were from Rent-a-Tent, she couldn’t wear a suit,

And her knickers were made from a single parachute.

She died in her bed, shrieking in pain,

And firemen had to lift her out with a crane.

She passed away in darkness, her last words quite faint,

“Why,” she gasped, “couldn’t we cure your terrible complaint?”

Her husband had an extremely peculiar condition.

“It’s irritating bowel,” declared his physician.

“To make matters worse you have severe halitosis.

And that, Mr Harty, is my informed diagnosis.”

The doctor held his breath in futile desperation

While Mr Harty stood there in stunned incredulation.

He was devastated, distraught and really broken hearted,

But then he lifted his buttock cheek, grunted and farted.

“Don’t you mean irritable?” Mr Harty then said.

“No,” said the doc, “you upset other people instead.

The air pressure in your stomach is constantly pumping –

In layman’s terms, you can never stop trumping.

You break wind on buses and guff loudly on trains,

You fart on boats and expel air on planes.”

The townsfolk had a nickname for Mr Jeremy Harty –

They called him, not surprisingly, Old Mr Farty.

He dropped one so bad at his Great Aunty Betty’s

That her guests had to hack their way out with machetes.

Even Queen Liz called him Old Mr Farty

After he let one off at her Garden Party.

His problem got worse as the years rolled ahead

And he wanted some answers before he was dead.

His bottom was burping ten times to the dozen –

The smell even hospitalised his wife’s second cousin.

He was convinced there was something his physician had missed,

So he arranged to see a Harley Street specialist.

He travelled by train, past forests and marshes

To meet with the doctor who specialised in arses.

The world renowned doctor, Sir Reginald McVie,

Charged for his services an astronomical fee.

This didn’t bother Mr Jeremy Harty –

Money was no problem for Old Mr Farty.

McVie’s office was large and the ceilings were high,

And he was wearing (as usual) his spotted bow tie.

One very large window was at the top of the room,

Through which light flooded in and dispelled any gloom.

Sir Reginald McVie was an old Scottish rogue

And he spoke in a distinctive gravelly brogue.

He hailed from a town that was inhabited by boozers

And his favourite saying was, “Take off yer troosers.”

His passion for bottoms consumed each waking hour

And it gave him a sense of unbelievable power.

He loved them all, from the pert to the baggy,

From fat ones and thin ones and ones that were saggy.

He always attempted (at least twice a week)

To examine an anus or a round buttock cheek.

Nothing gave him such a sense of adventure

Than probing his finger in a new patient’s sphincter.

When Mr Harty arrived McVie was delighted.

“I must say,” he said, “I’m genuinely excited.

I’ve never once heard of your strange condition

In all my years as a bottom physician.”

He asked Mr Harty if he would be able

To position himself on the examination table.

Mr Harty lay down, his buttocks ready and parted,

But as McVie bent down he let rip and farted.

“Och, that’s a ripe one!” McVie exclaimed, coming up for air,

“A smell as bad as that is exceedingly rare.

There’s only one thing for it, only one thing gets my vote!”

And then he went to a cupboard clutching his throat.

He took out a long wooden pole with a hook on the end,

And declared, “This is all I can recommend.”

Mr Harty gave a yelp and cried, “Where’s that going to go?”

“Don’t panic,” said McVie, “It’s for opening that window.”

The doctor talked to Mr Harty and came to a conclusion –

He couldn’t actually cure him, but he did have a solution.

Now Mr Harty’s happy, as all things come to pass,

Supplying all the town with his free Methane gas.