In a dimly lit room where the shadows convene,
Lives an old farting comrade, a relic unseen,
With a beard white as snow and ideals just as bold,
He rants about freedom, a tale oft retold.

His fingers, once nimble, now tremble with age,
Typing furiously, fueled by a digital rage,
Chasing the echoes of revolution's sweet call,
While the world spins around him—he’s lost in it all.

Stalking through pixels, he lurks in the night,
With his trusty old laptop, he’s ready to fight,
He follows the hashtags, he threads ever close,
In search of the comrades he longs to engross.

“Down with the capitalists!” he thunders online,
While letting out whoopee cushions—a sound so divine,
A cacophony bursts through his grumbling unrest,
As he types grand ideals, a slumbering pest.

Farting through forums, both fiery and grand,
In his quest for the workers, an old, stubborn hand,
He preaches of dialectics, the rise of the blue,
While concocting his schemes in a cloud of the rue.

“Oh comrades! Rejoice!” he exclaims with delight,
As he sends every tweet into endless late night,
In this vast digital labyrinth, he’s feeling so spry,
A ghost of old Marx, with a wink in his eye.

Yet behind all the bravado, the bluster, the gas,
Is just a lonely old radical, longing for class,
Stalking ideas, connections once bright,
In a web of his making, he manages to bite.

So here’s to the old man, as ripe as old cheese,
With a laugh and a sneeze, may he do as he please,
For in the great dance of the web’s travesty,
Even an old fart can dream of the free.

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