The Fable of Sir Fartsalot
By Charles Moffat, March 2018.
Once upon a time there was a knight from Kost.
He had a horrible habit of always getting lost.
Sir No-Sense-of-Direction would have been a good name,
But he was so flatulent that all other names seemed lame.
To better his good name he sought to become a dragonslayer,
Except being easily lost he first thought to seek a soothsayer.
South he went into the woods seeking the Minotaur Seer.
By accident he went east into the Troll Lands without any fear.
Realizing he was lost he tried to retrace his missteps,
But only went deeper into the dreaded Trollish Steppes.
He caught the foul whiff of a troll's stench in the air.
(Truth be told the troll smelt the knight's odorous affair.)
Knocking aside trees and boulders the troll came angrily towards him.
Seeing few options except to flee the knight decided to have a swim.
Into the rapids he went trying to avoid a whirlpool.
Into it he was sucked all the while screaming like a fool.
Into a deep dark cave that smelled of mushrooms he fell.
Where the troglodytes and their stenches did dwell.
The knight was coughing up water like a landlubber and farting like a hick.
The troglodyte chieftain's daughter came forward and poked him with a stick.
Having no tongue for language the troglodytes communicated with smells,
And in her direction he did fart so mightily that it set off wedding bells.
The chieftain ordered a great feast of rotten fish, moss salad, and pickled 'shrooms.
The knight realized he was in danger of polygamy, he needed to flee these fumes.
Up into the caves he fled, finding a tight crevice in the rocks into daylight.
He squeezed and exhaled and made most of his way through without a fight.
But then he got stuck between the last two rocks that pinched tight.
Held fast he could do naught but bake in the bright sunlight.
He was stuck there for days his mind becoming addled in the heat.
Having lost weight he finally squeezed free in one last soulful feat.
Lost, addled, and with no sense of direction he forever wandered the wilderness.
A shade of his former self, a ghostly reminder to fools to avoid such silliness.
So if ye be walking in the forest and you see one such knight so down on his luck,
Beware this cursed ghost for he will curse you to be similarly sunstruck.
On a positive side, now that he has joined the ranks of the ghostly undead,
His flatulence has been cured and he no longer smells of rotting bread.
The End of One Long Fart Joke.