Martin Parker: Don't Ask Me

I shrink from each girl in the High Street with name-badge and clipboard on show,
For whatever it is she is asking I know I’m not going to know.
For I’m one of the great “Undecideds” who clutter the face of the earth.
I’m unable to answer snap questions and I’ve been that way ever since birth.

Each birthday my mother would say, Son, what would you like for your tea?
A chocolate cake or a fruit one? And I always replied, Don’t ask me.
Careers Teachers all used to ask me what I was aiming to do.
So I read all the leaflets they gave me and told them I hadn’t a clue.

Do you now take this woman? they asked me as one stood at my side, all aglow
With a look of true love and devotion. And I answered, I really don’t know.
And as for the sickness or health bit and the richer or poorer as well
Deciding which options to go for was far from as clear as a bell.

Is beer best from Berlin or Burton? Is sex best with women or chaps?
Ah! At last I’ve an answer. I’m certain it’s better with women . . . perhaps.
Do I think Christianity’s dying? Do I think that this country’s a mess?
Do I think the Lib Dems are worth trying? I don’t know and I can’t even guess.

Is the House of Lords really worth keeping? Should Lottery winnings be taxed?
Do swearwords on telly need bleeping? Should the Duchess of York now be axed?
Do we need a new radio station or a drink that is flavoured with cheese?
Will climate change soon make the UK much warmer, much wetter, or freeze?

It’s not that I don’t have opinions, but they seem to be trapped deep inside.
A fog of confusion and panic in which most of my brain cells have died.
So when I am asked by my Maker for a list of my life’s highs and lows
And what sort of judgement they merit, my reply will be, God only knows.