The Flatutory Beeper

I think Wordsworth was damn lucky that when he saw ‘The Solitary Reaper’ she was singing in the fresh air of an open field. He could naturally wax eloquently and lyrically.

In a somewhat similar situation, I was however not so fortunate. The space was confined and the air ‘not so fresh’. I could therefore write only thus:

The Flatutory Beeper

Behold her, alone in the lift

Me and this elegant lass

Oh no! It’s rumbling by itself

Hold ! Or it’ll gently pass.

Her nose twitches and finds the strain

Of noxious and wafting methane.

Awkward silence knew no bound

Skies then opened with the sound.

The winds escaped as is their wont

With lengthy roll of drumming bands

To freedom from their colon-ial haunt

And gastro-enteric glands.

A roar so thundering ne’er was heard

Like a lion from his sleep is stirred.

She just laughed to put me at ease

Smiling wide as Euphrates.

The lift slowed. The floor bell rang.

My plight was near it’s ending.  

As she moved towards the door

I felt my belly again distending.

I stiffened, motionless and still

Like a leopard stalks its kill.

The crunching of my guts I bore

Till the lift had crossed her floor.

— Anuj

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Just in case you want to read Wordsworth’s original poem here it is 

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chant

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

- William Wordsworth