OK, I think I deserve
a bit more respect
from you readers. Not just the Charles Atlas,
knuckle heads, born from a twenty-something fear
of getting sand kicked in their face.
Spare me a thought you bookish types.
So rarely you see beyond the one-man
fork-lift-truck, the deliverer of dolmen,
the man that maintains the menhirs -
if I'm a sad quarryman, it's just that
I never made The Beatles' money.
There's more to me than meets the chin,
more to me than my punch, that mighty thwack
That sent so many Romans up and into orbit
At a time when they didn't yet know
the earth was round, think of me
as educating the common man.
In oratory terms I'm not Cicero,
and my second best friend is a dog
(a stubborn little bugger at that),
but it takes brains to direct these muscles.
And the little one? I know you all see him
as the thinker, but really, we're all just obliged
to humour him. He's such a pretty boy,
and he's dreadfully, dreadfully vain.
When it all comes down - no one likes
hanging up the largest star on a the fat guy's
dressing room door.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Graeme Green would be pleased to hear from you.