A boy,
Mister Knows no Hygiene,
filthy pants torn,
shirt nearly forlorn,
seldom do we talk,
rumors of Knows no Hygiene I hear,
and makes me think,
boy he needs to be self aware,
live up, what are you doing here?
Some say he landed from a dump yard,
radioactivity he discards,
a walking biohazard!
Curly hair like rusted factory springs,
a dusty medieval picture, his skin,
shames nearby bins!
A fresh burst of cologne,
garnished throughout the alley,
the shirt once worn, jeans torn,
was now a sally.
For something changed; abrupt,
never has it been,
left wonder struck,
seeing him now it feels,
aren't we all Mr Knows no Hygiene?
