Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash
A fool to try to cloak B. O. with Sure!
When even God cannot, my stench, contain.
So when it seems your nose cannot endure
It's best for you to flee than to remain.
My sweaty hands, they cannot hold my pen,
Foul odor billows forth to sting the eye,
Small children cry and parents curse me when
They see my most offensive self walk by.
So please lament for me, beloved friend,
For Love's sweet kiss won't bless this stinking brow,
And weep for those my fetid feet offend
Who think I've rolled in dung fresh from the cow.
A reeking man, as rancid as can be,
When this foul perspiration covers me.
"If I rest, I rust." -Martin Luther