The Tale Of Mr Pong Poem by sylvia spencer

I would like to tell you all, the tale of Mr Pong,
well if you think he is oriental,
then I am afraid you are all very wrong.
Well Mr Pong, is a man with a smell,
and if you haven't met him, then it is just as well.
So let me now tell you this very strange tale,
about a man that smells worse than a dungie pale.
He likes to think that he is a man of means,
but the warnings out when his eaten beans.
If you by pass him just give a nod and a wink,
outher wise hold your breath, or you will in inhail the stink.
The dirt on his body reflects on his skin,
if he took a bath he would sink right in.
Too him soap and water are strictly taboo
his feet are rotton and his socks are too.
When he meets his friends, who are very few,
it's a quick hello, then a silent gasp of phew!
No dentist will take him, you may find this rare,
the smell from his breath just pollutes the air.
He is a human stink-bomb, the town's people say,
they all clubed together and brought an insecticide spray.
They all had a whip round, the sky was the limit,
this included a haircut, a short back and trim it.
If you have not met him the man with the pong,
well the chances are, it won't be very long.
Now this is a warning to those with a weak heart,
just keep your distance, when he starts to fart.
Now his water bills are very few,
because he very seldom flushes the loo.
When he opened the windows a hurrican blew
the townsfolk were sick, and up they threw
The toilet overflowed and the sewer sprang a leak
The shop's counted the cost, as they closed for the week.
A job came up, which was his for the taking,
down at the cesspitt, clearing and raking.
In the middle of town there now stands a fan,
that starts automatically at the site of this man.
Well now you know the story, of the great Mr Pong,
the man who never done anything wrong,