Smells Like a Kanga Died

We were making a tour across Europe Stopped late down in Chalon-sur-Saône Checked into the youth hostel after lights out So I walked up the halls on my own. My father spoke with the attendant He was the one who spoke French, I opened each door down the long corridor, And closed one quick from which came a stench. The smell from that room was appalling, Like urine, tobacco and sin. It was hard to conceive or even believe That someone was sleeping within. Two or three doors further onward I found a dorm with empty beds, So I put down our gear and began to prepare For somewhere to lay down our heads. My father then came down the hallway, I heard him slam that door fast. He came in with a grin, as I looked at him, Content just to lie down at last. But more doors were opening and closing In came a bush-hat-sporting man, My father and I and that tall Aussie guy Had all closed that door with a slam. Before we could turn in for kipping We heard the banging once more, Then at our glance with a gangly stance Another one stood at our door. He turned to his mate and exhorted Eyes screwed with a squint of despair, And guffaws followed through when he said “Cripes Blue, Smelled like a dead Kanga in there. My father and I encountered a foul smelling room at a youth hostel in France. An Australian tourist who had a way with words nailed the reaction Now that you have got this far, leave a message and be a star! Thank you