Though the joys of life are transitory
The humble bogie in all its glory
Never gets a poem, paean or lecture
Praising squidgy biddies with their crispy texture.

Now I'm old and sear and love to linger
On the joys of rolling on your finger
Be it black, or be it yellow
Some scrunchy, greasy little fellow.

So come all ye bold nasal extractors!
When you weigh up all the factors,
Is there a pleasure that ranks beside,
Playing with a bit of snot that's dried?