An entry in the Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry
There is a lady, by the name of Gas ,
who is a character and a wonderful narrator,
A happy mind, and sparkling face,
Her energy shines, feverishly contagious.
High morality and self-righteous.
Like a Peacock, draped in secondhand pillowcase.
Yet sparkles had a farce, and terribly heavy too.
Remnants of hot breakfast, with a trace of cold dinner,
Her habit to release gas, right at the moment’s pass,
Was her strongest trait, noticeable by all around her,
Even office plants complained, gravitating away from her.
I advised myself in my mind, during a close encounter,
that if I was to let one loose me self, It would be as far from all who stood,
but not this pressure driven steam engine, she is determined, to ruin our lives.
Of course every human being, releases gas in respiration,
In tandem with laws of nature, to fuel plant photosynthesis.
But what I fail to understand, is why the plants are dying,
All around her vicinity, despite daily watering, and fresh fertilizer.
I now prophesy with gloomy certainty,
that her fumigation, oblivious to the suffering,
and the widespread suffocation, will eventually lead am sure,
to voluntary extinction, of our office kind ,
due to an inexplicable, deadly nose infection.