Washed Up: ablutophobia
He really hated using soap.
His mother, not forsaking hope,
Would on occasions give him bars—
To no effect. She tried some jars
Of fancy stuff. To no effect.
She knew that women would object
To his odoriferous estate:
No wife, no children—really great.
And when he died, the air was glad—
Unpleasant years, the air had had.
St. Peter smelled him on the way
And left a note: We’re closed today.
And Satan too abhorred the smell
And cried aloud: You'll ruin Hell!