The World's A Wanker

I think the world's a bloody wanker.
Think about it. All the old men, all the
Young boys. That's what, a third already.
Then there's the fundamentalist arseholes.
The bullies, the bosses with poles
Rammed up their backsides.
The bigoted hypocrites. The blundering creeps.
That makes it near enough half.

Then there's the bitches, slags, sluts,
Pimps and procrastinators.
Pikeys, chavs and hooligans. The
Curse of youth. The old complainers, aching
Grumps past their prime. The permed grannies
With their knitting needles clacking gossip
Under hair lacquer. That leaves one percent,
Crushed in the stampede of degradation.

I'm just on another planet all together.
Planet of my mind. Rotating around nothing
In particular. Part of very little. A quantum me.
Then again, that's what everyone says.
"I'm me!" They indignantly retort. "I'm not human!"
"I'm different. God's personal child!" And I tell them
To sod off. We're all talking utter piffle.
We just can't see it ourselves.