On Farting – (after Aleksander Fredro

On Farting – (after Aleksander Fredro)
Since ancient times across the land,
When colic grips at one’s command,
Everyone gladly lets one go—
Softly, sadly, or with gusto.
Old or young, both big and small,
From every backside fumes will crawl,
Each one gladly splits their seams,
Blowing breezes where it seems.
Maids and gentlemen alike,
Priests and nobles, thieves who strike,
Even the Pope, though more discreet,
Lets out incense from his seat.
People fart while sitting down,
Standing tall, or walking ‘round,
Even in the throes of love,
Keeping rhythm like thereof.
Pretty girls in blooming grace
Play it softly, flute-like pace,
While dignified and aging dames
Blast out full and hearty scales.
In the theatre, in the church,
Weekday, Sunday—none can lurch,
Philosopher and fool as well,
All keep trumpeting their smell.
One who overate his fill
Feels an oil lamp in his rear still;
When he tried to change the tone,
Soiled the windows, walls, and home.
Another reeks so dreadfully,
As if he dined on rot fully;
And when garlic fills his plate,
Even wind stands still in wait.
A third one, cheerful to the core,
Finds joy in letting out a roar,
So he strains with all his might
Just to toot a bit outright.
There a stutterer stands aside,
Clenching tight in fear and pride,
Wants to let a little squeak,
But in farting too can’t speak.
In a word, throughout the earth,
When a bubble seeks its birth,
Let them all release it freely—
Softly, sadly, or quite keenly.