Some folk like to play promoter 

claim they live to put on bands*

in truth they've got their work cut out

finding their own arse with both hands.

 

They draw up maps and spreadsheets

they make strategies and plans

but its location is a mystery

"Where's my arse? Shit! Where's my hands?"

 

They fight down waves of panic

they ask relatives and friends

they scour online “arse location” forums 

but their problem never ends

 

They’ve certificates from business school

their teachers said they’re clever

but they haven’t got a hope in hell

of bringing hands and arse together.

 

The concept seems so easy

the reality is glum

there’s nothing worse than using google earth

to help you find your bum

 

Now perseverance is a virtue

but the truth is I’d be lying

if I claimed even for a moment

that I respect the fact they’re trying

 

To overcome their inability

to have their buttocks meet their palms

if they were an infinite number of monkeys

with an infinite number of arms

 

They’d still be at it for eternity

and it still would never happen

you could throw in MRI and CGI

and Ordnance Survey mapping

 

And it would make no fucking difference

they still wouldn’t have a hope 

of getting right what is so simple

and instead they merely grope

 

Round blindly in the darkness

claiming they like to put on bands*

when the truth is that they've never once

found their own arse with both hands.

 

 

 

*they also say they like to put on poets, and are no better at that.

Hence the poem.

 

 

 

© Steve Pottinger May 2013