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