I'd rather be a cack-eyed awkward knob than you
For all your perfect teeth and hand jobs
I'd rather be the silently resentful weird one
Than the back-slapped, chest-poking, young gun
For every moment you've had of adolescent bliss
I've spent ten regretting everything I've missed
For every stroke, every goal, every glance and kiss
There were blows, failure, mockery and less
Yet I'd rather be me, you preening dumb tool
You vacuous, confident, ignorant, poor, dumb tool
Who wants to be me? No one
You? They sell magazines with how-to guides
People shell out money, jog, get surgery
But mainly just dream of the day they will be more like you
Gra** green, never greener, grows over the fence between us
Penis length I'm sure is in your favour
Your penis, in fact, is the hero of this and every other hour
And can access all orifice, stink box, blurter and growler
They didn't break the mould when they made you, mate
That mould was ma** produced
Does it grate, that on every corner and every bar, there's you
You have never said one thing completely new
Not thought, one thought, not thought before
You Cleo mag, Channel [V], "as seen on TV" bore
You school kids' idea of bliss, you teen idol
Package, construct, robot, product, lackey, baggage
I would rather be me, despite my self-disappointment
I would rather be me, because of that disappointment
I would rather be me, unknown, weak, bent and poor
I would rather be me with every mistake and flaw
I would rather be me because in the whole universe of us
In the galaxies of people, in the glowing incalculable nimbus
You provide the great system with nought
Whilst from afar, burning, lonely and nearly invisible
I, a star