by Nick Gisburne
It’s not the perfect body of my dreams,
But beggars can’t be choosers when they’re dead.
From artificial neck to toe, it seems
I’m burdened by the brass beneath my head.
With every move mechanical, the noise
Is punishingly painful to describe.
Imagine if a box of broken toys
Was furiously shaken. That’s the vibe.
They feed me from a tube, with toxic oil.
The orifice they shove it really hurts.
But worse than that, my reproductive coil
Is bent and inconveniently squirts.
I’m glad to be alive, but how I hate
The microwave at work. He wants a date.
