Being Smelly

When I stop and think 

About the way I stink 

I feel I want to sing 

About the way I ming, 

And as I sing my song 

About the way I pong 

The world will know too well 

About the way I smell. 


So if you stop and sniff 

At the way I niff 

You’ll want to turn your bum 

At the way I hum 

In high voice you’ll shriek 

At the way I reek 

Or throw yourself off a cliff 

At the way I whiff. 


And even in a nice fresh sweater 

You’re not spared from my bodily fetor 

A rancid tramp lying on a park bench 

Could not compete with my foul stench 

Before you see me, my telltale essence 

Will make damn sure you’re aware of my presence 

Never expect any kind of satisfaction 

From my putrid, unpleasant olfaction 


You can get drunk upon whiskey and soda 

But you’ll not escape from my body odour 

For my pungent armpits I’ll happily vent 

In order to distribute widely my scent. 

Even the French (whether in Paris or Le Touquet) 

Would turn up their noses at my noxious bouquet 

They’d be confounded with no explanation 

As to why a non-Frenchman has such a bad emanation. 


So when I stop and think 

About the way I stink 

I realise I don’t care 

About polluting the air 

And excited I shall get 

At every drop of sweat 

And I shall laugh from my belly 

’Cos it’s great is being smelly. 



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