The room fills with the familiar scent
of black tea and peppermint.
Hinting at the lack of hygiene
in those blue skinny jeans,
torn, the forlorn look today,
but, hey, who am I to say,
that your unkempt hair
uneven, hanging down to here-
greasy, like you don't care,
and your untrimmed stubble,
patchy, trying to be subtle,
and the boots up to here-
half-laced, to make me stare
make me want to double over
and scream “Hey! You there!
With the white wife-beater
and the striped suspenders!
Those clothes make you look like an ass today!”
And you, leaning on your left leg,
preening through your head-shag,
lifting up your thick rims with flat glass
would say “hey, man. I'm not an ass.”
Your whiny murmur revealed at last,
piercing my ears like nails on glass.
“This is my form of self-expression.
I'm fighting the cultural oppression.”
And you and your whiny, tiny-armed friends
would rise up and try to defend-
thinking we could make amends-
not reaching the conclusion your self's
an illusion, your culture intrusive,
common sense illusive, and not sensing
the horrid scent of peppermint.
You think you're being yourself,
but, you're just being everyone else.