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Tuneless Fat Kid

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Today like every other day
he sings in that annoying way-
a nasal adolescent whine
and songs you cannot quite define,
or voices incoherent rap
in a jaunty backwards baseball cap.
Rap I know sod all about,
his singing though is miles out –
his limitations magnified
by being loudly amplified.

With coins collecting at his feet
in a busy lunchtime city street,
he’s on a fervent quest, it seems,
to live his tuneless fat kid dreams.


With self-belief and passion strong
he bares his feelings, lost in song,
the soulful ballads  mainly those
that no-one over thirty knows.


His eyes are closed, he knows some moves
and fleetingly his act improves
but nothing really compensates
for all the notes he desecrates.


What’s needed here
is a word in his ear,
to make him aware
that life is unfair
and what he enjoys
is really just noise,
To crush his dreams,
spoil his schemes,
tell him he’s flat,
then hand him his hat.


Such a terrible task
is a really big ask-
the gloom it would place
on that great moon face
and I just cannot see
that falling to me.


But if somebody bold,
forthright and cold
told him to stop
the penny might drop
and spare us all
his caterwaul.


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