It’s not my position to scold
And I hate to seem prudish, or old,
(And a bath with a friend
I can quite recommend)
But this hot-tubbing cult leaves me cold.

Still, into the maelstrom I go
Where viruses seethe to and fro:
Veruccas and boils,
Private bodily oils
Exuded by folks I don’t know.

A-swill in this scum marinade
I try not to look too dismayed.
I’ll sip my Martini,
Let slip my bikini
And hope pretty soon to get laid.

A modish recreation, its pointless vanity emblematic of our times. The narrative voice here appears conflicted, but peer-pressure – or else indiscriminate carnality – wins the day.