A F****t.
Gentlest Blast of ill Concoction,
Reverse of high-ascending Belch,
The only Stink abhor'd by Scotch-men,
Belov'd and practis'd by the Welch.
Softest Note of inward Griping,
Sir Reverence's finest Part:
So fine it needs no pains of wiping,
Except it be a Brewer's F---t.
Swiftest Ease of Cholick Pains,
Vapour'd from a secret Stench,
That's rattled by the unbred Swains,
But whisper'd by the bashful Wench.
Shapeless F---t, we ne'er can shew thee,
But in that noble Female Sport;
In which by burning blue we know thee,
Th' Amusement of the Maids at Court.
