Romantic Poet

You would not have loved him,

my friend the scholar

decried. He brushed his teeth,

if at all, with salt. He lied,

and rarely washed

his hair. Wiped his ass

with leaves or with his hand.

The top of  his head would have barely

reached your tits. His pits

reeked, as did his deathbed.

But the nightingale, I said.