I pity my poor P.T. dress,
It cannot handle so much stress.
Every time I try to play,
No matter how clean I want to stay,
It never, ever works.

When it started, the day was bright
But the rain had left a muddy blight,
On the school grounds, a trap for me,
A person scatterbrained and clumsy,
It takes no genius to guess what happened.

The soccer ball had rolled away,
I travelled through scum all the way,
Picked it up, turned, then slipped and fell,
With a very startled yell,
And lo! I was brown all over.

My uniform was plastered with dirt,
But I was laughing, full of mirth,
Far too used to my own clumsiness,
To mind the shirt full of sadness,
And then I went to wash it off.

A week passed without incident,
But in P.T. class I had an accident,
Not really. Just that, the muddy ball
Came flying fast, only to fall
On me, and splat!

The next class I was determined,
To be clean and full of shine.
Every minute I would check,
But on my shirt there was no speck.
I was happy!

I gave a joyful, triumphant whoop,
But then, in one fell swoop,
That accursed ball flew through the air
On my poor shirt, to my despair.
Not again. My victory lost.

No matter how much my friends fretted,
And called me, "The Ultimate Mud Magnet,"
I knew for sure that more than me,
"Mud-Magnet" was the ball's destiny.
Wonder why no one notices.