Sonnet CXXX 2.0 (Apologies to W. Shakespeare)
The maid to whome I've given up my heart
Sits smiling sweetly in her vap'rous stench
The world forsook her not the pow'r to fart
A most rebellious, billious brand of wench
The tract my maiden's gas doth follow reeks
With sweetness from the meals that she hath et,
And softly doth her shapely bottom speak
Of tubas, flutes, and blaring coronet
Her wind doth hold the pow'r to make me swoon
And fills my trembling heart with mad desire
I fall upon my knees and praying groan
And warn she standeth not too near the fire
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied by passing air
-Tim Allen
Washington DC, Winter 1996
