I can see your pong bro

Hope I don't smell too much
Of bacon, gunpowder, treason and such
It really doesn't matter to me - the stench of rot
Whisping
Pungent
Miasmic
No other word for it
What must it reek of
To a dog
Whose nose is so sensitive
The poor pooch can see with it
Never mind your aura
I can see your pong
Your effluent shadow
Your stink-ghost 
The noxious emanation of your putrid essence
The intricate demise of your petals
The giving up of your hope
The letting off of your dream
In a lukewarm puff of steam
The point where your soil and your body do part
Turns out your soul is no more than a fart
In the wind
Of infinite rank
It begins with a spank
Ends with emission
Your odor goes dank
Where is your scent
The ether of mission
Got up and went
The perfume is missing
No pot left to piss in. 

2019