I'd rather be a cack-eyed awkward knob than younFor all your perfect teeth and hand jobsnI'd rather be the silently resentful weird onenThan the back-slapped, chest-poking, young gunnFor every moment you've had of adolescent blissnI've spent ten regretting everything I've missednFor every stroke, every goal, every glance and kissnThere were blows, failure, mockery and lessnYet I'd rather be menYou preening dumb toolnYou vacuous, confident, ignorant, poor dumb toolnWho wants to be me? No onenYou? They sell magazines with how-to guidesnPeople shell out money, jog, get surgery but mainly just dream of the daynThey will be more like younGrass green, never greener, grows over the fence between usnPenis length I am sure is in your favournYour penis, in fact, is the hero of the this and every other hournAnd can access all orifice, stink box, blurter and growlernThey didn't break the mould when they made you, matenThat mould was mass producednDoes it grate, that on every corner and every bar, there's younYou have never said one thing completely newnNot thought, one thought not thought beforenYou Cleo mag, Channel V as seen on TV borenYou school kids' idea of blissnYou teen idolnPackage, Construct, Robot, Product, Lackey, BaggagenI'd would rather be me, despite my self-disappointmentnI'd would rather be me, because of that disappointmentnI'd would rather be me unknown, weak, bent and poornI'd would rather be me with every mistake and flawnI'd would rather be me because in the whole universe of usnIn the galaxies of people, in the glowing incalculable nimbusnYou provide the great system with naughtnWhilst from afar, burning, lonely and nearly invisiblenI, a star