He’s an abstract head, eyes looking inside
He’d be on the stage if he could better deride
All the others
Heared by those close by
Primed to scorn and to chide him
Like a cruel mother
He’s lesser known, the only member in his audience
He’s wise enough to have grown in confidence
And you know he’ll survive all those awkward frickin glances
He’s…
He’s always got in mind a slanted aspect
His secret weapon
He lives on his wit
He’s the man of some dreams but they’re mostly night terrors
Although he’s in too deep he’ll carry on ailing joking
He’s the…
He’s the punner
All over Manchester
They think nothing
Supposed muse worthy man, he don’t seem much
And such a thing’ll never be this year’s last year’s thing
He’s no charity, takes something for nothing
A wall chart for his lines, a victim of his desires
Sometimes he dreams of lights and stage direction
A rope ladder of greased teflon for him to climb
He’s the punner
He’s the punner
All through this industry
They think nothing
As a muse worthy man he ain’t up to much
And such a thing’ll never be last year’s next year’s thing
He’s a centre spread—a Pulitzer Prize for the dunce
He’s the one on his wonder wall
Watched by none and all; scared to move
He’s barely grown always in the one stance
But you know he’ll survive all those awkward frickin glances
He’s the punner
He’s the punner