Introduction

I met Bastock last year in a country pub in Devon, England. Bastock (don't know his real name) worked on a nearby farm and was enjoying a lunchtime pie and pint. Bastock broke wind freely as he chatted with the landlord, which, I suppose, must be quite liberating. I wrote the following poem for Bastock which should be read out loud in a country yokel accent.

Turnips

Turnip feast! Turnip feast!
Bastock stuffs a gut full
burpy turns to gassy leak
Bastock looking doleful.

Home he trot to see wife, Dot
says "Clean blasters I desire"
Dot say "You mucky Bastock
I'll wang 'em on the fire".

Burning pants a fumey choke
descends upon the kitchen
"May as well have baked a turd"
say Dottie still abitchin'

Bastock lopey off akip
two by beds they lie in
Bastock bottie windy blow
the duvet goes aflyin'

Bastock cork in sphincter shove
to stop his bum achuffin'
one comes up and cork pops out
hits Dottie in her muffin

Dottie yell, plays bloody hell
Bastock runs for cover
deep regret of turnip feast
he'll never chomp another.

Copyright; Stephen Cree
Email: thuddingmushrooms@btinternet.com
Web Site: http://whyfronts.tripod.com/stupidpoetry