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Wednesday, 4 November 2020

I MIGHT BE WRONG

I have a dreadful secret and it makes me want to cry.

Outside I’ve got street spirit but inside I’m high and dry. 

You might be optimistic but don’t be in any doubt:

this spectre scratches at my chest and threatens to fade out.


I walk bedecked in bishop’s robes, a trickster in the town,

but if you pulled the ripcord my facade would be let down.

It leaves me all in limbo and demolishes my cred:

although I seem a cool kid, I don’t like Radiohead. 


While others call them genius I find their tunes a chore.

It gives me an ill wind; it’s like a wolf is at my door.

It leaves me feeling paranoid when others preach their class;

apart from ‘Creep’ and ‘Karma Police’ I simply can’t be arsed. 


I think it sounds all scatterbrained. I dislike Thom Yorke’s voice.

You say it’s like molasses but it doesn’t make me moist.

I get it, they’re original and technical pioneers;

my brain retains this knowledge but it doesn’t sate my ears.


Perhaps I’m just a tourist and I need to make amends

but honey, I can’t help it if their songs give me the bends.

So go on, get your knives out and them hold them to my throat:

I’d rather listen to the bleatings of a billy goat. 


Yes take your chant of ‘burn the witch’ and say it to my face.

To me their music’s like a jigsaw falling out of place.

Just call me an imposter, or an android, if you choose

but I’m not a fan of Radiohead. And also I hate Muse.



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