I don’t think I’ve ever been the stuff of woman’s fantasies
I doubt a stranger passing on a street has given me
a second glance
I can’t play guitar I can’t sing a song I can’t even dance
I am what some magazines would call “out of shape”
I have a beard but contrary to stereotypes
it doesn’t smell nor does it contain
remnants of food like Mr Twit .
But maybe if I died in some immaculate way
I’d be revered
and future people would pray to effigies of me,
have images of me dangling from their neck.
Alters made up of an old shoe I once wore,
or perhaps a piece of paper I had scribbled on?
My pathetic writing suddenly prophetic.
Until then I guess I continue to exsist
and grow my beard in readiness.