Howard Firkin
Yes, I’m talking to you.
You get depressed because you’re stunning? What?
You get depressed because the world won’t wake
to give you things that you’ve refused to take?
What’s there to give that you can’t say you’ve got?
Look in the mirror. Tell me, what’s your beef?
You are as beautiful as rainy days,
black pepper on a poached egg; you’re the taste
of hollandaise and caper berries placed
on folds of salmon, gleaming champagne glaze.
Your only lack: the germ of self-belief.
They’ll whisper, make tut-tutting noises, cough.
So what? It’s still you standing centre stage,
and all the business, staging, noises off,
will win you your applause (and feed their rage).
You get depressed because the world won’t wake
to give you things that you’ve refused to take?
What’s there to give that you can’t say you’ve got?
Look in the mirror. Tell me, what’s your beef?
You are as beautiful as rainy days,
black pepper on a poached egg; you’re the taste
of hollandaise and caper berries placed
on folds of salmon, gleaming champagne glaze.
Your only lack: the germ of self-belief.
They’ll whisper, make tut-tutting noises, cough.
So what? It’s still you standing centre stage,
and all the business, staging, noises off,
will win you your applause (and feed their rage).
