is what we called them when we were much younger:
obnoxious gusts of human sewer gas
that took the edge abruptly off the hunger
of those in range of the offending ass-
hole during lunch. The more intense the noise
the better, though it often was a medley
of loud explosions from the bolder boys
and sneak attacks known as the silent, deadly
type. Now that we've grown up, have decent jobs,
acknowledge expectations of a spouse
and try to not come off as utter slobs,
we flush the can, pick up around the house,
get underneath umbrellas when rain starts
and limit our malfeasance to brain farts.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, C.B. Anderson
would be pleased to hear them.