In exchange for a couple of houseplants, a friend gave me this poem, drawn from real life.
Fartin’ ‘n Gold Pants at the Dollar Tree
by Michael Ryan Chandler
Is it a frog? Did someone step on a duck? Did someone pop a lunch sack? Fartin’ ‘n gold pants at the Dollar Tree. Did a sewer line back up? Did someone forget to wash? Did a mouse die under the cans? Fartin’ ‘n gold pants at the Dollar Tree. Was it a burrito you ate? Was it bad broccoli? Was it a sandwich full of hate? Fartin’ ‘n gold pants at the Dollar Tree. I’m sympathetic to folks with gastritis with pants touched by Midas. But a mighty gastritis done got hold’a you. I guess I should’a known. I was feeling so alone, all alone in an empty old store when from across the way what did I hear? It sounded like a flock of geese. It sounded like the end of the world. At first I was confused. At first I felt fear. Then I saw your gold rump shakin’ and quakin’ calling out. People say express yourself and I believe that to be true, but honey, please find another way. Maybe change your diet. Maybe go to France. I heard they don’t fart there. Whatever you do when you’re at the Dollar Tree please don’t fart in gold pants.