Uncle Bill

As a youth my uncle Bill,
Discovered that he had a skill,
Friends and family he'd astound,
By making an amazing sound.
He couldn't sing, he couldn't dance,
He only found it out by chance,
One winter night he scratched his bum,
And inhaled air with his rectum,
And found releasing bit by bit,
He had a firm control of it.
At once he knew he could find fame,
The people he would entertain,
As Gateshead's only petomane.
He trained his ringpiece day and night,
First to relax and then go tight,
And so then by the end of June,
His arse could play a lovely tune.
In pubs and clubs he trod the boards,
The people came to watch in hordes,
And listen to his bottom chords.
The other acts were all usurped,
Every time Bill's botty burped.
His skilful sphincter earned renown,
For him around this North East town,
His Sousa marches went down well,
He played a fine version of “Liberty Bell”.
Then one day he got a gig,
He knew this one could make him big,
No club artiste could want for more,
A turn at the” Excelsior”.
A Sunday morning between the strippers,
Was when Bill would let out his rippers.
“I hope Paul Gascoigne will be there,
To listen to my derriere,
Now there's a man who likes a laugh,
Perhaps I'll get his autograph,
And, if I perform well on this stage,
I might even get to play the Sage,
After all it is an art,
The way I play my nether part.
I'll need to pump out something loud,
A rousing tune to please the crowd”
So, in musical records he did delve,
And came across the 1812.
“The perfect piece” Bill did roar,
“The audience will beg for more”
He practiced it for weeks and weeks,
There was no rest for his butt cheeks,
Hour after hour he did spend,
Finely tuning his hint-end.
That Sunday morning, though well prepared,
All of a sudden Bill got scared,
He wasn't sure if he should risk it,
Launching such a large air biscuit.
In the dressing room he sat,
Wishing, hoping, praying that,
Soon his nerves would all be gone,
Then he heard,”Hurry up,you're on”
The concert chairman got to his feet
“This morning lads we have a treat,
From Bensham all the way he's come,
Let's have a big hand for Billy's Bum”.
The concert room was full of blokes,
Drinking brown ale and telling jokes,
They had come from far and wide,
To hear his musical backside.
So with hands on knees and buttocks aloft,
Bill's first notes were beautifully soft,
He carried on and started to blow,
Towards the final crescendo.
The cannon blast, his grand finale,
Thundered out of his back alley,
But punters knew all was not well,
When they inhaled the awful smell.
That concert room it stank of poo,
Uncle Bill had followed through!
He slunk off stage his face all red,
Wishing that he could be dead.
The concert chairman paid him off,
Said “Next time try Rachmaninoff”
And with that he threw him out,
The angry crowd began to shout
“Never show your face again,
With your antics of methane”
He shuffled out ashamed and flustered,
Even Gazza was disgusted.
And so it was from that day hence,
Bill never played with flatulence,
A comeback for Bill is a non starter,
Now he's just a boring old farter.