A strange mustiness creeps from under his door,
Ill-fitting and gaps filled with newspaper.
His family used to visit years gone by, but
Now they're accused of being traitors.
Bad-tempered, foul-mouthed and permanently bathed
In squalor and moods to wreak havoc.
They stopped coming by, called it a day,
Said he was a right royal pain in the buttock.
His clothes are unwashed and heaped all around
And bath night is once every semester.
Whether he needs one or not, the water won't be hot,
Even the neighbours are beginning to pester.
His windows are black, the whole place is a shack
Even pigs expect better conditions.
The do-gooders have tried, they knock on his door,
Being gluttons for attempting hopeless missions.
Right now it's no life, he never wooed a wife,
A sorry state of affairs between and betwixt.
What would you expect from an old curmudgeon like him,
Too late for an old dog to learn new tricks.
