The Ozone’s Full Of Shite (funny)

1. The Ozone’s Full Of Shite

The ozone’s full of cow pat fumes,

not one of Earth’s more prized perfumes,

it lingers low, it floats up high,

a rustic stench that bites the sky.

A breeze rolls in, no use, no luck,

it smells like someone’s boiled a duck,

then left it rotting in a shed

beside a well-worn farmer’s bed.

The daisies wilt, the birds fly wrong,

the hedgehog hums a protest song,

the sun looks down, then shifts its gaze,

“Not today,” it says, unfazed.

Yet country folk just breathe it in,

like eau de field and rotting skin.

They say it builds the soul and lung,

well, bless their nose and bless their tongue.

2. The City Bloke

A city bloke once came to stay,

he’d booked a “farm retreat” away,

he lasted less than half a day,

screamed, “It stinks!” then ran away.

Then she appeared, in boots knee-high,

a sparkle fierce behind one eye,

she leaned upon a gate and grinned,

“I love that smell, it’s country wind.”

I stared, half stunned, my nose half dead,

she twirled a strand of hay and said,

“Some think it’s foul, but I say bold,

it’s earthy, strong… and slightly old.”

Her dog rolled in a steaming patch,

she clapped, “Good lad! A proper catch!”

I thought she’d run, but no, she stayed,

and cheered the dung cart on parade.

3. Our First Date

We shared a flask beside the heap,

the cows looked on, the hills asleep,

she sighed, “You smell like home and fate.”

I mumbled, “Thanks, I didn’t bathe.”

She winked, then kissed me, bold as brass,

right in the scent of fermenting grass.

Who needs Chanel when love can bloom

mid methane clouds and muck-cart gloom?

4. Wedding Vows and Welly Wows

We wed beneath the village tree,

the one that leans but mostly free,

our guests arrived in boots and hats,

plus midges, starlings, cows, and gnats.

The vicar held his nose, then read

the vows while tiptoeing in dread,

a goose honked loud, the groom (that’s me)

stood proud in tweed and old debris.

She wore a dress once white and neat,

now smeared with hoofprints, grass and peat.

She smiled and whispered, “Smell that air,

a proper start, with love and flair.”

The wedding feast? A bale of hay,

some cider strong enough to slay,

a pudding shaped like farmer’s boots,

and speeches shouted over flutes.

We danced through dusk in rubber shoes,

to fiddled tunes and forget any blues,

then off we rode at half-past ten,

behind the muck-cart, once again.