Six miles downwind lie the dead souls
who dared stand before your putrid stench.
Beyond fly burnished bats as fruity faraway trolls
trample through the locks to quench
their impossible thirst for fresh buttered rolls.
Shampoo is not for you who turns wrench
on oneself and strips the screws from scrolls
written and read by three-fingered French
friars of the underground smellastic holes.