Swami's Rim

Way up beyond the swami's rim a
Fart starts to stray.
Thus raising an ethical question:
Give disciples a bouquet?
Down toward the exit hole it's racin'—
A bad arom'.
Meanwhile, his throng is incantatin',
Each one droning an "om."

He wonders if they will query
Him on the arom'.
This one, he thinks, will smell quite beery—
He quaffs Kingfisher foam.

He ponders his dharma and wonders,
Stifling his bung:
If, when it exits, it will thunder
Or be a silent one?
Not too much longer can he smother
It—gas is nigh.
He knows that if he had his druthers,
It would give up and die.

He wonders if they will query
Him on the arom'.
In the future they will be leery
Of giving him their "om."

The little rut among his tush is
Ready to move.
Out a methaney mistral rushes. . .
Smells like rendered horse hooves.

Now he sees that they all are runnin'.
They scream—not "om."
At least Gita's rules 'bout butt thrummin'
Are not yet caste in stone.