Poetry for Peace, day 24. Perfect

Day 24. Another late night trying to come up with something. So here it is.  I thought I'd try something different. It's a sort of rap, Can ageing, middle class Englishmen do rap?
Probably not. Maybe this is a new genre: OAP Rap. Or maybe I need to sleep and be suitably horrified come the morning at what I've written.


by Steve Cook

It doesn't matter who you are 
Or what you do,
There's always someone 
Gonna tell you 
All the things about yourself
They think you oughta change,
Aspects and facets
Of your body or your character
You gotta rearrange
If you wanna be acceptable,
Admisable or
Gratifyingly approvable.
You're too hyper or excitable,
Too boring, quiet, bland or forgettable,
Too skinny, too fat, too lame, 
Or lumpy in all the wrong places
And God forbid
Anybody ever sees you naked.
Your face don't fit
You look like shit;
Why don't you just admit
You might as well quit.
You're the wrong shape
The wrong size
The wrong sex
The wrong height
And it's kind of surprising
They let you out at night. 
You're seriously flawed,
A faker and a fraud
And considering your
Inadequacies, deficiencies
And blemishes
It's something of a miracle
You haven't been arrested.
Your manner, quite honestly,
Leaves a lot to be desired
While your opinions by survey
Are such an ill-conceived travesty
They can only be admired.
Your politics, incidentally
Are a recipe for calamity;
You're considerably challenged mentally
And by your own admission,
As thick as two short politicians.
When you stare into the mirror
Someone ugly stares right back
While the TV ads remind you
Of everything you lack.
You've hair like a 
Demented marmoset
And the charm of a chimpanzee
And you'll probably need surgery
To fix your knobbly knees.
Not entirely surprisingly
Your depressive personality
Needs large amounts of drugs
Or therapeutic electricity,
For your brain works imperfectly
Thanks to chemical deficiencies
Diseases and imbalances
That severely hinder your chances
Of ever living normally,
Sensibly or happily
And, I must say, most tragically
Of ever getting laid.
And while we're on the subject
Of things most personal
And sensitive
Your dick's too small
You boobs too flacid
Your bum too saggy
Your eyes too baggy
Your ears too hairy.
Your hair's too greasy
Or conspicuously missing,
Your smile is downright scary
And has all the agreeability
Of an oven-ready chicken.
So, all in all, your chances
Of serious romances
While on the whole pretty horrible
Are not entirely negligible
But not necessarily
With the same species.

If anyone tries to tell you
Everything that's wrong with you,
How to fit the bill,
Make the grade
Pass muster
Or how to be,
Tell them to fuck off.
Tell then from me,
I think you're perfect.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

Bloody Hell Steve you are a complete genius. This is your usual blend of hilarious but dark and amazingly balanced - fabulous stuff!