Dear Auntie
Belle,
I am a proud Greek. Both of my parents are worthy and educated. I spend virtually every waking-minute writing poetry in my mother's basement. I only stop when mama brings me down a plate of hot, buttered croissants. (a family recipe dating back to at least 1942.)
Needless to say, I fart a lot. It gets rather smelly down here. I'm afraid the stink may have permeated my poetry...
Please help!
Signed,
Dear Ovum,
I have seen three-day-old roadkill baking in the hot southern sun, heard the sound of maggots feasting upon its decomposing flesh (stirring mac & cheese will mimic that sound perfectly); I have waded waist-deep through raw sewage and helped recover swollen corpses following a flood. I have even been near a crowd of sweaty Amish women who were hand-washing the rags they use for those two months out of the year they aren't pregnant. I thought there was no foul odor I had not experienced, and then I opened your letter. The residual aroma of your flatulence actually made the stench of your poetry tolerable. And may I ask...what is that disgusting oily substance that came with it? I can't seem to wash it off my fingers.
I am a proud Greek. Both of my parents are worthy and educated. I spend virtually every waking-minute writing poetry in my mother's basement. I only stop when mama brings me down a plate of hot, buttered croissants. (a family recipe dating back to at least 1942.)
Needless to say, I fart a lot. It gets rather smelly down here. I'm afraid the stink may have permeated my poetry...
Turbated
Night
A
route U live too close two farts
Contained
therein tangerine dream's reunion
Momentous
rages impugns air's ponds
Loads
of stool, weathering so, thank you Don
(Hookahs
be a pine for me and doh-see-doh.)
Without
compassion, obviating inside every stranger
Empires
of an ideologue, more and more bright stars
Two
plots adrift abundantly a squamous satyr burns
Horizontal
mists, a bun, tight over the door transits
(A
formal ides of night-turbated sails.)
Winds
escape, adjoining your breath's still
Flagging
ptomaine persecutes you, a fiendish sigh
A
bun, abound, abundantly you cinder
You
use my arrant gases as your tinder
A
gift of my trajectory, caress you though I might
(Instead
I send you daffodils draped in un-masted night.)
I submitted a
few examples to a worthy and respected website in America. Their
reception was exactly what I expected, but it still hurt. I've
attached a copy of my best poem so you'll see what I'm talking about.
I think we can both agree it's an incoherent mess.Please help!
Signed,
G.Ovum
Dear Ovum,
I have seen three-day-old roadkill baking in the hot southern sun, heard the sound of maggots feasting upon its decomposing flesh (stirring mac & cheese will mimic that sound perfectly); I have waded waist-deep through raw sewage and helped recover swollen corpses following a flood. I have even been near a crowd of sweaty Amish women who were hand-washing the rags they use for those two months out of the year they aren't pregnant. I thought there was no foul odor I had not experienced, and then I opened your letter. The residual aroma of your flatulence actually made the stench of your poetry tolerable. And may I ask...what is that disgusting oily substance that came with it? I can't seem to wash it off my fingers.
Auntie
Belle
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