Happy 254th birthday to The Bard or Ploughman Poet. I've got a hangover that would kill a small horse having celebrated Burns Night last night. If you're asked to do a reading, you could always give 'em this: Ode to a fart. Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie As ye sit doon amongst yer kin There sterts tae stir an enormous win' The neeps an' tatties an' mushy peas Stert workin' like a gentle breeze But soon the puddin' wi' the sonsie face Will have ye blawin' a' ower the place. Nae matter whit the hell ye dae A'body's gonnae have tae pay Even if ye try tae stifle It's like a bullet oot o' a rifle Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair Tae try an' stop the leakin' air Shift yersel fae cheek tae cheek Pray tae God it disnae reek. But aw yer efforts gan asunder Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder Ricochets aroon' the room Michty me! A sonic boom God Almighty, it fairly reeks! Hope I huvnae crapped ma breeks! Tae the bog I'd better scurry, Ach, whit the hell, it's no ma worry. A'body roon aboot me chokin' Yin or twa were nearly bokin' I'll feel better for a while Cannae help but raise a smile. Wis him! I shout with accusin' glower, Alas! Too late! He's just keeled ower Ya dirty bugger, they shout and stare A didnae feel welcome ony mair Where e're ye be let yer wind gang free Sounds like just thon wee jobby for me Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party Ower the sake o' ma ane wee farty.