This poem is to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Pumping, trumping, oh the stink,
how I wish my nose would shrink.
My those beans were really ripe,
now my farts do smell like tripe.
Fingers crossed I make the loo,
or I may just follow through!
Pumping, trumping, oh the stink,
how I wish my nose would shrink.
My those beans were really ripe,
now my farts do smell like tripe.
Fingers crossed I make the loo,
or I may just follow through!
Written Oct 25, 2007
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