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.