(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.