Hasten, O Novice down to the streambed!
The rocks there are sharp, but your smell brings more pain.
The stench from the sweat that is coating your armour
Does not go away at the moment you're slain.
Don't drown yourself in musk from a bottle.
You might think it works, but it's just not the same.
Odors there are that Old English can't handle;
'Brut' was cologne; now you've made it your name!
Hasten, O Fyrdman, down to the water!
Cleaning you up we need far too much force.
The mob's turning ugly, much worse than your odor;
You made the wrong choice, Lad, you backed the wrong horse.
Off to the shower, O shoulder-companion;
Later when our breath we need no longer hold,
We'll welcome you back with our arms fully open,
But until then, not for all the King's gold!
Hasten, O Huscarl, off to the shower,
Field-battle ended so early Saturday.
The stench can be smelled up in royal encampment,
The crowned heads are threatening to faint dead away!
So take up a wash-cloth, and fill it with soap suds,
Scrub away at dirt that is twenty Pennsics old!
Never enter court when you smell like mangy goat, boys;
You'll never rise to Peer while your smell is so bold!
Hasten, O Master, take that Knight with you.
Your belts started white; now they're darker than brown!
You've won all the battles, you've killed all your foemen,
The most dedicated of Popsies turn you down!
Perhaps you should hire some men as your Right Guard.
Maybe you could eat foods laden with Old Spice.
But the best thing by far would be good old soap and water,
Or else stand down-wind, I think that would be nice!
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