The time and date is:
2:45 pm Saturday, 27 May 2017
* Home

Sections
* Ballads
* Ballad Features
* Burns
* McGonagall
* Other Poetry
* Scottish Writers
* Scots Glossary

Poets
* Alphabetical List
* Featured List

Poems
* List of Topics

Songs
* Scottish Songs
* Modern Songs

Submissions
* Submit a Poem
* Submit a Song

Policies
* Copyright
* Permission
* Privacy
* Standards

Web Links
* Other Sites

Contact
* About Us
* E-mail Us

Lunatics and Losers ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
2004

I wish I was a lunatic,
Sometimes I really do,
For if I were a psychopath
I'd stand a chance with you.
Your figure is stupendous,
You've got 42-inch legs,
But somebody scooped out your brains
And pumped in scrambled eggs.
You're witty, smart, intelligent,
Nobody disagrees,
Yet long to spend your life with
Passing mediocrities.
I showed consideration,
That is just where I went wrong,
For lunatics and losers
Are the ones who turn you on.

I wish I was an imbecile,
No marbles and no screws,
Devoid of conversation,
Then I'd be the one you choose.
If only I'd first thought of it
I'd not be in this fix,
But somebody scooped out your brains
And pumped in doughnut mix.
You've got a decent home and job,
You should be hard to please,
Yet throw yourself at anyone
That floats by in the breeze.
The world would be your oyster
If you were more circumspect,
But lunatics and losers
Are the ones that you select.

I wish I was a gutter-snipe,
The strutting, lumpish kind,
I'd merely snap my fingers
And you'd trot along behind.
You claim to seek a gentleman
Who won't make you afraid,
But somebody scooped out your brains
And pumped in marmalade.
You're ready with excuses
For such problems as arise,
Though make-up and dark glasses
Cannot hide your blackened eyes.
I think it's more romantic
To give flowers than a punch,
But lunatics and losers
Are the ones you drive to lunch.

Your academic attributes
Can never be denied,
Those ONC's and HND's
Should be a cause of pride.
You say that education
Is your path to Mr Right,
But somebody scooped out your brains
And pumped in araldite.
Your family's disowned you,
All your friends say: "What's the use?"
Along comes one more crazy
That you try to introduce.
You can't convince a single soul
This cretin is sublime,
For we can read the signals -
He'll be gone in six weeks time!

I think, upon reflection,
I'm glad you've not chosen me;
If I became your lover
I'd be hanging from some tree.
I'd rather be a friend, that way
My life can run its course,
For somebody scooped out your brains
And pumped in parsley sauce.


Web Site by IT-SERVE © 1999 - 2017 All Rights Reserved Return to top