Ode to Nastiness

O Goddess of the dirty hue! With eyes so red, with cheeks so blue! With mouth so wide, and eke so wet! With lips of snow! with teeth of jet! O thou to whom the stars bequeath A vulture's voice, and viper's breath! Kindly accept the verse that's due To, Cindercola, none but you.

Hail, Nastiness! I thee adore! Cindercola's favourite care! Mellow'd ye with her you sleep; With her you bask at morning peep; And comfortably funk and soak, Lodg'd in a nasty, dirty smock; Or else, in filth, you loll away, In an undress, a summer's day. What tho' the laundress may look grave; They three-pence get, who three-pence save And to wash oft the coarsest clout, Most certainly, will wear it out. Fast every festival you keep; Watch much, if ye intend to sleep; And be long dirty, if you mean To enjoy the sweets of being clean.

O Nastiness! I thee adore; Friend to the miser and the poor! How many craftsmen by thee live! How many poets with thee thrive! And write, in rags and stinking room, Works to bless ages yet to come: Which, as the earth from chaos sprung, Or cucumbers grow out of dung; Or sugar, most resin'd, arose From Indians black filth-pressing toes So, from the rubbish of thy brain, Rises a bright poetick strain; Which, tho' in dirty garrets bred, Is yet in sine apartments read. Monks merit Heaven in dirty cloisters, And dirty shells preserve clean oysters. Dear Cindercola, ever be From cleanliness, so costly, free! Dirt to our souls can do no harm; Dirt helps to keep the body warm; Dirt interferes not with our quiet; And hunger's pleas'd with dirty diet; Nay, some say, both at court and kirk, Folks often go thro' dirty work. From dirt we came, to dirt we go; By God! all things are dirt below: Be dirty, witty, then, and rake; And shine like Chattsworth in the Peak: Bright be your souls for ever seen; Bright, thro' their nasty, dirty screen!