The moment they said that we couldn’t go out
I thought of the strictures that I could now flout;
the sartorial rules that no longer held true
and the gross misdemeanors that I could now do.
The second they claimed that we had to stay home
I abandoned my brush and discarded my comb.
The hair on my head’s now akin to a mop,
my attempts at decorum are simply a flop.
I now wear my t-shirts for three days at least
and I no longer care if my trousers are creased.
My baths are infrequent, my pants are well-worn.
My garments are crusty from looking at porn.
I started off fresh and I started off groomed,
but as things unravelled my face got subsumed
by a jungle-like growth from my ears to my throat.
I started to look like an ape or a stoat.
And as these vibrissae continue their yomp
my profile, once proud, is now losing its pomp.
The wiry tendrils are staking their claim;
the wife who once loved me recoils in shame.
I walk with a shamble, conversing in grunts.
I burp and I snort and I fart all at once.
My semblance of rectitude has been destroyed:
I now am that bloke that you’d want to avoid.
But do I regret it? I couldn’t care less.
I’ve seized on this moment to fully regress.
From the instant they said that we can’t mill about,
the wild man within me just had to come out.
