Waiting For the Newer Models

Waiting For the Newer Models

A withered gaze upon the dregs,
of hairy arms, and hairy legs,
a scratchy beard that causes dread,
A thinly crowning glory on my head.

The tears that scour my rough, patchy skin,
the lump of flesh, the lopsided paunch therein,
when I look in the mirror, and see that pale form,
covered in a sheen of sweaty gorm.

You disgust me so, from my hair to my toes.
The hair on my toes even moreso.
Bags under my eyes, so exhausted I look.
My nose is bulbous, and has a hook.

Crinkles and lines from laughs I’ve never had,
and why do my teeth look so crookedly sad?
A face fit for radio if ever there was,
and it seems my ears have grown a forest of fuzz.

My frame is askew, I stand in a slump.
My butt is so flat, and my chest is a lump.
Yet not two lumps, shapely and round,
more like I stuffed in a t-shirt from the lost and found.

A trunk thick and wide, with muscular thighs,
not soft and refined that may draw the eyes.
Big calves and large feet, not slender and small,
I really don’t like what I’m wearing at all.

A birthday suit shouldn’t fit this way.
You’d think it could have been more custom made,
to match the raiment I see in my mind,
I wish I could just leave this body behind.


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