(or how I live with being an ugly bastard)
Pity the pretty I say,
though their lives often seem glad and gay
for I've seen what's inside,
and the pain that they hide
and wouldn't trade my plain looks for a day.
The woman fair worst I believe,
those with faces so lovely I grieve,
they drift from sad man to bad man
like an ocean bound tin can
never finding a home, nor reprieve.
The men do little better its true:
hunks envied by me and by you,
they find it easy to pull,
yet grow up so dull,
they end up stuck with the bint from verse two.
Peter Traynor