We all bleed; I’m just ill-bred about it.
Of the twenty-seven holes so far bored
through my flesh all were amateurish, split
seconds of poor choices. There’s no reward
for a gauche childhood other than blatant
bleeding while your betters smirk. Oscar Wilde
never tripped on rusty farm equipment.
No one in Bronski Beat had such reviled
puncture wounds. Jinkies! I hear their peevish,
“Tsks,” each time I must take off my trousers.
Tsks and, “If you call that mutilating.”
Twenty-seven scars and not one foppish
gaffe; just crackups, buckshot, brass knucks, a spur.
–– Redundant wounds. –– Tedious hemorrhaging.