Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Comedy · #2147587
A fictional but believable poem starring myself and my two brothers.
The racers lined up.
Steve and Bill stood there leery.
Though, brothers they were,
none could ever beat Gary.

The contest began,
just like any other.
But, soon it was clear
who was the fastest― of brothers.

They could not keep up
with their brawniest bro.
Could Bill or Steve win?
The answer seemed “No.”

Then a rumble, a crack,
the booming of thunder―
“What the hell was that sound?”
two brothers did wonder.

Then Steve caught the whiff,
that terrible smell.
He looked unto Bill,
who smelled it as well.

The scent― it was building,
the more that they ran.
“We have to leave here!”
shouted Bill. “If we can!”

Steve tried to slow,
but the stink had expanded.
The slower he ran,
the less he could stand it.

So, he caught up to Bill,
through malodorous mire.
“We’ve got to pass Gary.
His ass is on fire!”

Then inside their heads
some primal thing snapped.
They needed fresh air.
Brother Gary had crapped.

A magical spark,
a spur in their guts,
quickened the brothers.
For to stay there was nuts.

In five mighty bounds
they shot past their bro.
Their leg muscles ached,
but they needed to go.

They crossed the line panting,
soon able to breathe;
But Gary had lost,
and was starting to seethe.

Swift Gary’d have won,
Steve knew from the start,
were it not for the ghastly—
odiferous fart.

So thus he said sternly
through the funky morass,
“No more racing dear brother―
         till you air out your ass.”

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