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(Dedicated to the Boys’ Hostel)

From day to day, and time to time

I feel the thick and sticky grime

Upon my forehead, on my nose,

Between my fungalicious toes.

It slowly oozes whilst I sleep,

Into my skin pores it does seep.

It makes me smell both sweet and sour,

But I still do refuse to shower.


When rugby or cricket I play,

the sweat and mud upon me may

stick upon my neck and palms,

within my hairy underarms.

And then, from there, that rotting grime –

it makes my body smell sublime!

It stays there, stuck, for hours and hours,


But still I do neglect my showers.

And once a way, I am inclined,

within a bar to myself find.

Awaken when I do next noon,

A whiff I whiff that makes me swoon.

I stumble, and my head does hurt,

I wear a urine-soaked blue shirt.

But though caressed by puke and wine,

My showers I still do decline.


Then, one day, as I walked the street,

And filled it with my smell so sweet,

I heard the sound of scream and shout

And men began to run about.

A small old lady pulled a knife,

And stabbed me till she took my life.

Now bleeding out, though, here I lay,

I’ve still not showered to this day.



Published in Poetry


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