The Popular Crowd
Sure wish I were part of the popular crowd,
Riding the same wave all of them do.
Always shuffling about and groaning aloud,
I’d bite off a big hunk of that, too.
I understand why those guys are admired —
Slick sallow skin and long lonely stares,
Disheveled like their give-a-shits expired,
Milling about with nary a care.
Stoically wordless, though their guts may be spilled,
There’s art in what their silence achieves.
An intense fervor that can leave the heart stilled,
Which, by the way, most wear on their sleeves.
I see them on TV and video games,
And know it’s something I’ll never be.
To a no-nothing geek it seems such a shame
That you have to blend in to be seen.
But why not? Hey, I can’t get any lamer.
The chicks don’t dig me … dudes don’t either.
So, this kind of thing seems like a no-brainer.
Dead or alive? Cool kids are neither.