The Thing with the Smelly Bum

The thing with a smelly bum
is around again,
spoiling my fun,
sense of adequacy and success.
What is it?
Is it God the sadist?
Well I'll make him glum
if I can,
But we'll see. It may be difficult.
Now,
I've lost my poetic thread instead.
Why aren't people
Made like trees,
consisting of beautiful leaves,
prepared to fall as the sun and night dictate.

I demand a professor a year,
That would deter the drear.
O dear, he's not dead. It's
only in my head,
And life becomes life again.

How strange I am,
But then others can be too, I suppose,
And I am interested in the esoteric after all,
As well as in everything else,
So I propose let the professors live instead.