As a would-be-writer, what is more apt?
Then to have as a bag a nice leather satch?
It makes me look rather smart,
There is one problem: it smells of fart.
I wear my satchel with pride and joy,
There stands a man where once was a boy.
A brilliant vehicle for books and my phone,
But when I wear it there is always a groan.
I used to thrust my head in the sand,
I couldn’t accept it, you must understand.
But like a fox who’s wearing a thong,
I knew deep down that something was wrong.
One day, eventually, I had to give in,
Gossip heard above big city din.
I’m on a bus, behind, sit two young girls,
One with straight hair, one with curls.
“Saturday, did Sandra kiss Barry?” they ask,
My face becoming a very bored mask.
“I’m really not sure, but something stinks”
I look at my satchel and it leers and winks.
My satchel was treated in camel piss,
It makes it look great but here’s the twist:
My satch smells of arse and stinks out my room,
But I love it so much I endure the fume.
What shall I do? Shall I throw it away?
My mind says yes but my heart says nay.
I love it, I love it, I can’t let it go,
You say otherwise you’re a lifelong foe.
This is a tale of conflicted love,
The satchel was crafted by the Lord Above.
Yes, it reeks, but it looks great with my mac,
And the same cannot be said of an old rusksack.