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On Poets & Farts
by
Bo Burnham
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Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves, about their single file march to shore, and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts, which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal regularity? Are these poets too holy to comment on anything less than nature's flashiest gestures? Are we going to spend another millennia searching for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls? Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's rump and away from all that pretty stuff, and hеar that foul, muted trumpet sing, marking the еnd of an era?
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