I do admire a soap that knows its station,
and wastes no time on lengthy negotiation.
No limp affair that sulks beneath the tap,
but one that springs to life and earns its nap.
A brisk, decisive, thoroughly British bar,
that works up lather fit for royalty and spa.
It foams with such enthusiasm and grace,
one feels the world has rather lost its place.
The bills can wait, the telephone can ring,
the neighbours may discuss most anything.
I’ve shut the door; I’m indisposed, you see—
There’s a pressing engagement here with me.
Into the bath, where steaming waters rise,
and all the week’s indignities vaporise.
The soap slips in with rather saucy ease,
and sets about its business as it please.
A creamy froth, a fragrance most divine—
One almost feels the Queen would call it fine.
Now, I shall not pretend I’m made of stone;
A chap can only spend so long alone
Before a certain thought begins to stir:
How much of this is soap, and how much her?
For when the bubbles gather round one’s waist,
it seems a dreadful shame to be in haste.
The lather climbs with positively indecent zeal,
and makes one question what is fit to feel.
A slippery shoulder, a knee emerging white—
One hardly knows where manners end outright.
The bathroom mirror mists; discretion wins;
The soap, meanwhile, gets everywhere it shouldn’t have been.
Outside, the world conducts its grim charade:
The rent is due, the taxes must be paid.
Some fool has sent twelve emails marked URGENT,
and someone’s calling virtue an indulgence.
Let them all wait; I’ve reached a higher plane,
where hot water washes off the daily strain.
For life, my dear, is far too short to spend
in meetings that refuse to reach an end.
One needs a little luxury, a little sin,
a locked door and some bubbles on the skin.
A decent bar of soap, a bath drawn deep,
and absolutely no one asking one to leap.
So here’s my toast to soap that does not dither,
that brings its creamy charms to bear with vigour.
To foam that rises, fragrances that linger,
and slippery situations growing ever finger—
Well, let us not descend to vulgar speech;
Some pleasures are beyond the vicar’s reach.
And when at last I drain the bath and rise,
with rosy cheeks and innocence in my eyes,
I’ll wrap myself in towels, calm and prim,
as though no scandal had occurred within.
Then face the world, composed, refreshed, and bright—
For some affairs are best conducted out of sight.