Her cheeks and buttocks shall so near agreeeath: easy
In shape and semblance, they shall seem to be
Twins by their likeness, nor shall it be eath
To know, which is which by their fulsome breath.
If a fart flye away where he makes his stay,
Can any man think or suppose?
For a fart cannot tell, when its out where to dwell,
Unlesse it be in your nose, unlesse it be in your nose boyes,
Unlesse it be in your nose.
For a fart cannot tell, when its out where to dwell
Unlesse it be in your nose.
I'th' int'rim, fond of mischief telling,
The rainbow-goddess flies to Helen:
Most modern farts I ever knew,
When set on fire burn only blue,
Or simple red, but when behind
This nimble goddess lets out wind,
You see not only reds and blues,
But all the colours painters use.
He was a master of the anecdote, a fund of improbable stories, many of which epitomized the tragicomedy of what it meant to be Irish. One of the more bizarre 'wheezes' (as he habitually termed these stories and observations) concerned an occasion when he was traveling in an old-fashioned train of the kind which had no corridor, so that the passengers were imprisoned in their compartments for as long as the train was moving. He was not alone in the compartment. He found himself opposite one other character, a respectable-looking farmer in a tweed suit whose agitated manner was to be explained by the demands of nature. When the train had rattled on for a further few miles, and showed no signs of stopping at a station where a lavatory might have been available, the gentleman pulled down his trousers, squatted on the floor of the railway carriage and defecated. When this operation was complete, and the gentleman, fully clothed, was once more seated opposite Albert Lewis, the smell in the compartment was so powerful as to be almost nauseating. To vary, if not to drown the odour, Albert Lewis got a pipe from his pocket and began to light it. But at that point the stranger opposite, who had not spoken one word during the entire journey, leaned forward and censoriously tapped a sign on the window which read NO SMOKING.
Every man's turd smells well in's ownFoyst = foist = fist. See Oxford English Dictionary, under fist, n.2: "A breaking wind, a foul smell, stink."
nose. Vanish, foyst!
MANLY THUNDERNote: Paul Poissel is actually an invention of Paul La Farge.
The next night, Mme F—— dreams that she's on the 367 bus from the Louvre to Belleville. A well-dressed gentleman gets up and offers her his fortune, which adds up to two million francs, he says. He grabs Mme F—— by the waist and says he wants to kiss her. "Oh no," says Mme F—— "Not again!" At that moment the gentleman farts loudly. Sorely embarrassed by this contretemps, he gets off the bus, and disappears into a crowd of old people and soldiers.
Mme F—— wakes up sad and sleepy: another of those damn dreams. "The 367 bus doesn't even go to Belleville," she tells herself.
Beckett was listening while his friend Walter Lowenfels expounded at length his views on the relationship of art and the desolate condition of society. Beckett nodded but said nothing, until his friend burst out, "You sit there saying nothing while the world is going to pieces! What do you want! What do you want to do?" Beckett crossed his long legs and drawled, "Walter, all I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante."
