Where Rosemary Grows Poem by Phil Soar

She aint got no money
Her clothes are rather funny
Her hair looks like a damaged tree
Oh, but love grows in between her gross toes
And she smells just like a lavatory

She talks kinda crazy
Her memory is quite hazy
And she has a custard recipe
Oh but she shows, she don't smell like a rose
And she doesn't mean a thing to me

There's something about the way that she smiles
Makes blokes run for some miles
When she comes out to play
She has a sort of magical smell
Like it's dragged up from hell
And does not go away

She's a kind of smeller
Who'll never get a fella
But she tries her best to treat it for free
Oh, but stuff grows, in between her fat toes
And nobody knows it but me


(with apologies to the song, Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes)