Dirt Poem by Gary Diamond

I prefer the things we've given up on.
I'd prefer to not wash for days
Wear my favourite stinking clothes
Drink last nights beer.

Dirt.
Dirt.
Dirt.
Dirt.

It clings to us and we make silly gestures to get it off.
As time rolls on like a smothering mother
We all seem to wise up and think we've done well
To correct it
To see the origin of the dirt
And reject it.

How can we think that way.
I'm guessing we're all soft and stupid.

Dirt.
Dirt
Dirt
Hurts.

Odd that a little dirt can cause so much anger.
It is to some the chinks in the armour of the toppling castle.

By embracing that which so many have rejected.
I have become much less prone to sickness and malice.
Rarely a cough or cold do I see.
I can ride around naked in the frosty cold
And it only does me more good.
Though not so much
For the eyes of those who saw me.