Old Stale Sweat Poem by PAUL COLVIN

There’s always one beyond reproach
I shy away, dare not approach
She masks herself in cheap perfume
And makes outside, a crowded room
To walk unwashed with old stale sweat
I feel my senses start to fret
My stomach turns as though in breach
The stench it makes me want to reach
In summer’s heat I gasp for breath
Before my senses die a death
Fresh sweat forms on my brow
I wish to God that she could now
Pay society her debt
And wash away that old stale sweat
It doesn’t cost to wash and groom
Then outside would be an open room.