I’m wet and weedy, concave chest,
I’m out of breath and off the pace,
My ribcage shows beneath my vest,
Charles Atlas kicks sand in my face –
What I would do, though sickly-pale,
Is nationalise all mail and rail.
My hair is thin, I’m out of puff,
My eyes are scarlet-red and rheumy,
My pulse-rate reading’s rather rough,
The doctor’s notes on me are gloomy –
What I would like, though weak of wrist,
Is to be internationalist.
I have no biceps I can touch,
My skin is slack, and dirty beige,
My food would grace a rabbit-hutch,
Say ‘exercise’, I disengage –
What I would love, though weak as pox,
Is to be rid of Liam Fox.
My blood is white, my thoughts are red,
My teeth are loose, my heart is pink,
Though I am of the walking dead,
And cannot swim (I simply sink),
Though men with muscle toss the caber,
I’m hobbling in to vote for Labour.