Stink

Stink

A lurid whiff of Sunday fry‑ups,
the oily tang that clings to apron strings,
a pungent chorus from the market stalls,
where cheese turns ripe and fishheads swing.

It drifts down cobbled lanes in damp November,
mingles with rain‑slicked soot and chimney sighs,
a stubborn perfume that the wind refuses
to carry far, instead it lingers, lies.

Oh, stink! you are the city’s honest breath,
the reminder that life is not all sweet,
you teach us to hold our noses, yet to smile,
for even foulest airs can make life complete.