Storytelling Johnny, sit me on your knee.
Recite me some memory. No one else need see.
Glowing with gossip of some gamine from Glossop.
Boyish girl with a rucksack. Girlish boy with a bad back.
You're high on Wittgenstein. You are kind with red wine.
Whispering after a time, "I ALONE AM MINE."

Storytelling Johnny, crying like Niobe.
Moaning "if only others were as TIDY as me.
I once attempted Love. But it was oh so MESSY.
Not like in the MOVIES. Where at least it's much SHORTER...
It's best to dye your hair. It's best to change your name.
Rather than pin the blame on some helpless mother."

I long for today to be just like it was at school,
Where I was nearly Loved just for sharing my answers.
But the Happy Adult look wasn't in any Usborne book.
And a gold star in algebra won't get you far (except the bar).
And in a hopeful maisonette, the girl pushed a boy away and said
"These hips are not child-bearing, they're child-SPURNING
And child-SPARING and child-SCARING."

I was getting so afraid. I nearly had a t-shirt made
Saying 'LOSE FRIENDS IN DAYS, ASK ME HOW.'
She is now smoking menthols, because she heard they make you sterile.
She says "I'm helping evolution while remaining very stylish.
And oh it's also very handy for removing a young family
From a crowded cafe... I just light up and SWEAR LOUDLY.
Well I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Storytelling Johnny, throw your words around me.
You never fail to regale with a new tale.
You're still high on Wittgenstein. You're still ready with red wine.
You are free from anyone's designs, saying "I alone am mine."
You're resigned to "I alone am mine."