An Ode to Buns
Buns are rosy, buns are round,
Some spurt gas without a sound;
And other buns, without a care,
Blow methane with a trumpet blare.
Some buns are fountains of delight,
Some buns bellow in the night!
Some are wrinkled, old, and droopy,
Some are fragrant, some are poopy.
Pendulous are sumo buns,
Each a generous metric ton,
Some buns are covered with thick bristles,
Others could make deadly missiles.
Some imitate the song of larks,
Some emit surprising barks;
Buns that are squeezed tight with gristle
Tend to make a high-pitched whistle.
O, the world is full of many buns!
New arses one must never shun;
But I'm glad, though some are quite divine
That yours are yours, and mine are mine.
