Holy bengali I eat broccoli,
To tame my fart as art.
The gods are too good,
Playful I am and smart.
Sometimes it's a squeeze,
The tune played is cosine.
Like an extended wistful song,
The bards in my rectum pine.
Nonsensical babble full of sound,
This parade of loony bards.
In arms podgy books of theology,
Virtuous but vicious words.
The land is bland I understand,
Every man a vermin pest.
Macabre and bizarre fat women,
Devoted to frequent rest.
Most are fat but not like that,
It's their ass that's in their head.
This makes their farts suicidal,
The Bengali doomed to be dead.
Born a hindoo I had no clue,
What is what, until one day.
Distracted with my thoughts
Millions of gods said "hey".
They said in a tone of baritone,
Slightly drunk chorus of joy.
They liked my poot, a joyous smell,
It smelled of cowdung in soy.
Thus I am now a gaseous guru,
Full of sulphurous gas and food.
The heavens look forward to,
My gas it smells so good.
