Oh, dear stick of Deodorant,

I finally can tell you how I feel.

Lets kick this poem off,

See what I can reveal:

Every morning, I sit up to see you.

Standing tall, your plastic lid holding in your power.

If you had a face,

I bet you'd smile as I carefully pick you up

And into my hands.

Gently, I place your clear top down

Your lovely B-O killer scent drifting up.

You are a stick, pale as the snow,

Only one purpose you serve, and you serve it well.

Lifting my arm at a 90 degree angle,

(I swear I can hear you squeal with delight)

With a gentle back and forth motion,

Leaving a layer of your wondrous "shower fresh" scent.

Repeat process on the other arm,

Only after turning your small dial of a foot.

I smile happily and give you a pat,

After having put your hat back on.

I bet if you had eyes, they'd be tearing up.

I set you back down.

Now, because of you,

You are my angel, blessing me to not reek.

And your power of disintegrating stinky smells,

Has kept me as fresh as a daisy.

Oh fair Deodorant,

I do declare,

I love you.