Poetic Armpits…

After many hours at his desk,

The poet does stink like the rest,

His armpits giving off body odor,

Would not like to know what his crotch smells like,

We all better hope he did in the shower use Zest…

He does perspire and sweats,

Over his poetry while puffing on a cigarette,

Worry does he about the end result,

His poetry does he exult,

His odor does all else insult…

One day he does realize,

Coming before the time he does idealize,

Told he is by the paperboy,

Man, you stink to high heaven,

If it were me; my mom would then bathe me,

You see I am still only eleven…

     © ed ~ 4/21/05