A children’s poem about a pig who refuses to have a bath.

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Public Domain

What’s that pong? What’s that stink?
It smells so bad I cannot think!
It whiffs like mouldy, rotten eggs!
What is making this terrible stench?

Wait, who’s this creature? He’s surrounded by flies!
It’s a lazy old pig and he’s eating mud pies.
He hasn’t had a wash and he looks so mucky.
Is he the one who stinks so yucky?
YES! IT’S HIM! What a terrible whiff!
His name is Gusty. Go on, have a sniff.

I think it’s about time Gusty had a bath…
“No way!” said the pig, “Don’t make me laugh!
I love being dirty and rolling in slurry!
And I hate being clean… so I’m in no hurry!”
And kicking up a cloud of filthy green smog
Gusty jumped into a deep, muddy bog.

But everything changed on one fateful day,
when Gusty went to the park to play.
His friends were playing with little toy soldiers
But they all held their noses when they smelled bad odours.

“Hello,” said Gusty, feeling in the pink.
“Go away,” said his friends, “You really STINK!
Your enormous gust of B.O. is putrid.
All of our lungs are being polluted.
You smell so bad you belong in a zoo.
We don’t want to play with you!”

Gusty slouched away feeling sad.
Why did his friends treat him so bad?
Did they really hate his smell so much
that no-one would let him play hopscotch?

Perhaps, Gusty thought, it’s time he got clean.
That might stop his friends being mean.
He decided to sneak into the farmer’s house
But Gusty had to do it as quiet as a mouse.
The farmer would only be out for an hour
So lickity split, he jumped in the shower.

Gusty scrubbed with soap.
Gusty flossed his teeth.
Gusty shaved off his bristles
and sponged down his feet.
Then he looked in the mirror and gave a quick wave,
and he splashed on the farmer’s aftershave.

“I’M BACK!” said Gusty to all of his friends.
This time, he smelled all nice once again.
His friends had a sniff and started to smile.
“Hurrah!” they said, “Can you play for a while?”
“Sure!” said Gusty, as he joined in the fun.
His friends were pleased the bad smells had all gone.

Gusty thought being stinky was good.
But his friends had taught him, he now understood,
that having a wash meant he could play in the park.
So from now on he made sure that he had a bath.

Humorous fiction writer, poet and novelist. Fond of satire. Interested in comic novels, black comedy and tales of satirical derring-do.

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