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
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Copyright © Neil Mcleod | Year Posted 2015
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