Men are from who nose where...
I think it’s been established pretty firmly
that women’s home is on the planet Venus
(we’re not all beauties, but we are aspiring),
whilst men are just a totally different genus.
We are starlight, we are roses – and we never pick our noses -
no, we never pick our noses: we’re not men.
It’s a feature of the modern urban highway
that when stopping at a junction or at lights
a man must stick a finger in his nostril,
and excavate its imminent delights...
They are macho, they are gritty, and their habits are not pretty –
no, they’re habits are not pretty: they are men.
There’s an inter-neural digital reaction
which is nasally reflexive in a bloke
when he walks or talks or thinks or sees a movie –
you can try to stop it with a gentle poke,
but the only way to really put a spoke
in his mucal wheel (when it’s long past a joke)
is engaging both hands at a single stroke –
as he’s a man!