The Why’s I dig you, Playdough Gentleman

You allow fork support directly into your back. And it’s not that you’re weak, or morally wanting. Your hat’s just so damn fine: it has weight. A hat like that would make any man fold in on himself.

And you’re a-racial. Crazy times, Dough Guy. Blacks and whites and shites all over, and you’re just walking by giving it pink- not mild piggy-Caucasian inverted commas pink, no. Full-frontal neon business that’s front-footed, man. Refreshing. Global ad deals, for real.

Your hat + jeans. Jaunty lean. Turned up creps. I’m human- would look enormous on your arm- might even pulverise you on a date in a very final way…But I SEE you.

You’re ‘built’. Pretty cheeky for a playdough mec, ’cause I’m pretty sure Virgin don’t do deals for your kind. So tiny you could scoot under the turnstiles un-clocked (how RAD would it be to catch you doing that?! ‘Did you… have you… that little guy…?’) And then where to? Class? Running machine only good for mushing you up. No swimming, NO. No doubt you can lift stuff. Strong, you know it. Go, Guy!

The whole point of you. There IS no point. You don’t need to exist, but you don’t give a fuck: you do. You brought it on, nonchalant, in colour blocks. Happy to lie down on a plate, not bothered one way or the other, prop-me-for-a-selfie. ‘Yeah whatever’, you’re like. Channeling some kind of Bruno Mars plasticine vibe. Elastic. Smooth. Thumb-worn.

Your cool bins to shield the sun. Or you’re partially-sighted and who helped you pull your outfit off? Matching tie to smile- Ryan’s bud in L L Land. Am I jumping to jazz conclusions? Am I wrong?

Time to go, fly Guy.


Roll out.

Keep smiling.


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