There once was a fellow named Bart <br />he declared Father Death to be art <br />when the knock finally came <br />and death called out his name <br />he said, please, just one last farewell fart. <br /> <br />Father Death had ignored this small plea <br />Bart was home that was easy to see <br />when the loudest of farts <br />and it had to be Bart's <br />blew the reaper right down on his knee. <br /> <br />When the reaper is utterly humbled <br />and his job has been thoroughly bumbled <br />he will have to retreat <br />while admitting defeat <br />Bart was scared and he farted and mumbled. <br /> <br />So it is the olfactory nerve <br />that's the weak spot, it gives us new verve <br />so when Father death knocks <br />quickly strip off your socks <br />let him have it, say: 'Happy to serve.' <br /> <br />If collateral fallout disturbs you <br />a discloloured pyjama perturbs, too <br />then you don't wear a frown <br />but a wide open gown <br />it's what 'DEATH-I-WILL-FART' people must do.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beating-father-death/
