There once was a fellow named Bart
he declared Father Death to be art
when the knock finally came
and death called out his name
he said, please, just one last farewell fart.

Father Death had ignored this small plea
Bart was home that was easy to see
when the loudest of farts
and it had to be Bart's
blew the reaper right down on his knee.

When the reaper is utterly humbled
and his job has been thoroughly bumbled
he will have to retreat
while admitting defeat
Bart was scared and he farted and mumbled.

So it is the olfactory nerve
that's the weak spot, it gives us new verve
so when Father death knocks
quickly strip off your socks
let him have it, say: 'Happy to serve.'

If collateral fallout disturbs you
a discloloured pyjama perturbs, too
then you don't wear a frown
but a wide open gown
it's what 'DEATH-I-WILL-FART' people must do.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beating-father-death/