On the outside

No one ever tries to kill me,
or disfigure me for life.
I guess I’m just not good enough,
for the madman’s knife.

Victims dredged from rivers,
body parts dispersed,
Why is it always someone else,
who rides the coroner’s hearse?

The news is full of carnage,
every vile pernicious sin,
but I feel strangely on the outside,
looking in.

I’d just like more involvement
in the civic life around me,
not just sit here like a pillock,
as life goes on without me.

So if you’d like to poison me
or slice me ear to ear,
visiting day is Tuesday,
free parking at the rear.



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