Dirt exposure ‘boosts happiness’

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Do you feel like you’re a crouton
in the mushroom soup of gloom?
Does suicide sound just the thing
for Sunday afternoon?

When you’re reading Little Women,
do you wish that you were Beth?
If I mention flowers and kittens,
does it make you think of death?

Have you sobbed through seven hankies
‘cos your wife cooked spotted dick?
(And since you had that STD,
she KNOWS it makes you sick.)

Are your troubles too tremendous?
Are your woes a whirligig?
Well – just before you slit your wrists –
consider, please, the pig.

The future chop is chipper –
he delights in his profession.
You don’t see bacon takin’
medication for depression.

A shrink or psychotherapist
will give you confirmation;
they’ve never had a client
of a porcine inclination.

So what’s the swine’s great secret?
I tell you, this is it:
his love for mud is in his blood
he’s satisfied with shit.

Ridiculous, you say, perhaps –
you won’t make me convert.
What fool would swap his Prozac
for a trotter full of dirt?

But think about it logically
between your sobs and sniffles.
The evidence is there to say
it’s anything but piffle.

When a beetle’s done with eating dung,
d’you reckon he goes home
to cry into his cup of wee
and have a little moan?

Or take the hefty hippo;
he evacuates his bowels
and rolls in the results, but keeps
a smile upon his jowls.

The scientists are with me –
they reckon stop your moanin’
and roll on down to dig the dirt
and boost your serotonin.

The marvellous mud medicine
can fight infections too;
so let’s get down and dirty
and play like pigs in poo.

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