Better Man

They all sound the same
these blokes.
Blokey blokes.
Middle aged
middle spoken
middle mused.
Won’t bother with excitement
because they’re
just so laid back.
Better than their homeland.
Superior to their countrymen.
‘Concrete jungle’ is the
biggest ‘fuck you’
to ever run from their
thin, fireless lips.
Good luck,
better man.
Your shoulders must hurt
under the weight of
carrying around
the impression that
the world owes you
Something. Everything.
Good luck, better man
and godspeed
to your motorbike.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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