Standing gazing
at my legs
in mirror
of changing
room,
toned, but white
as a glass of milk,
with hairless shins
worn out by trousers,
it's going to be
too hot to wear
clothes,
I've got a metrosexual
look about me,
I'm a consumer now,
and all the foreign
girls want to sell
me face cream,
I dart by, everytime,
but it never really works
though,
not the cream, I mean,
I get mine on prescription,
made with oatmeal,
a True Scot, I hope,
God I feel like a girl
on a mission to look good,
I guess I'm at odds
with what being normal is,
I zip like a zipper
past it all,
unable to dispose
of my pretend costume...
I'm coming back, you'll
see,
with Marx, where my stupid
new trainer socks, used to be...
Money - it's all a dream..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Unable to dispose! With the muse of life. Nice work.