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Mike Stools
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.
