Delenema

I hate it when the pretty lady farts
And I can’t catch a whiff of her perfume,
Deservedly she should be stealing hearts.
Alas, instead she’s clearing out the room.

With beauty such as hers one shouldn’t care-
Yet I would pass a racehorse in my way.
When need for love competes with that for air
I have to live to love another day.

How loathsome is the thought I might offend
Or come across as scornful judge and jury-
I wish it were that what comes from her end
Would only be the sound and not the fury.

These quirks of life annoying as they are,
Are often just the way the story goes.
I’ll so admire her- but from afar,
And wish sometimes I didn’t have a nose.

John H. Bidwell