i change my identity more often than i change my underwear. consequently i stink Good day to you.
Cross Channel swimmers Fish have scales And turtles shells And walruses have blubber A frogman wouldn’t wet his feet Without his suit of rubber But the naked form in ice-cold seas Is exposed to say the least Which is why cross-channel swimmers Like to smear themselves in grease And I feel I could play my part In their aquatic endeavour By applying the emollient membrane That prevents them from turning to leather I wouldn’t use it sparingly Or dilute it with thinners I’d slap it nice and thick upon Those daring distance swimmers I don’t want any medals Or fancy eight-course dinners I just want to rub the grease On cross-channel swimmers Only the very best would do From ostriches or geese I’d cull them, pluck them, render them For their supply of grease Stored in jars of earthenware Or possibly porcelain pots And when called into action I’d be ready with the lot I’d shout encouragement And we’d both feel warm inside They from insulation And I professional pride I don’t want an oscar or grammy Or anything quite so banal I just want to rub the grease On those who swim the channel They’d be waterproof and weatherproof As sleek as a dolphin’s tail Slipping through the sea in a coat of dripping How could their endurance fail? And when France at last came underfoot And we’d squabbled with our very last squid I’d take the grease back off again With a brush and fairy liquid. I don’t want notoriety Or to be questioned by the police I just want to be the mystic masseur Who covers cross-channel swimmers in grease
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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