I wish I was a punk rocker,
With safety pins through my nose.
A pink mohican on my head
And rubber bondage clothes.
I'd earn the wrath of Teddy Boys
As I shopped along the Kings Road.
Then pogo to the 100 Club.
To gob on The Ramones.
I wish I was a piece of cheese,
Just waiting in a trap.
For a mouse to come and nibble me,
So I could spring and break its back.
I'd watch with morbid interest
As it was eaten by the cat.
Then scream when I was pilfered by
A particularly ravenous rat.
Singing: won't you come and ride with us,
In a minibus with Phill Jupitus?
To a time when people turned swastikas
Into handy garden ploughs.
My rose-tinted version of history
Has brought such great success to me.
And thanks to my basement webcasts,
I don't even need to leave the house.
I wish I was a Victorian girl,
A writer like Emily Brontë.
Curled up coughing myself to death
With my beloved toy Dave the Monkey.
I'd curse my sisters, Charlotte and Anne,
For their feeble attempts to revive me.
Then realise the flowers in my hair
Were nothing but poison ivy.
Monday, October 30, 2006
[A poem in which folk-pop sensation Sandi Thom contemplates being a proper punk rocker and some other things too]