Somewhere there is a machine,
run by a somewhat lesser god,
turning out the misfits of society,
to fill the quotas at bar's last calls,
to add to wallflowers
at a dance's final song,
and the membership lists
at lonely hearts clubs.
Not all things created are equal,
there walk among us many spurned
living out sad lives in a lonely haze
feeding on empty dreams
and becoming anorexic
gazing longingly at lovers
and then going home to a twin bed
that holds anything but a pair.
Imagine the aches of
never knowing touch
sealed up orifices
and raisin shrunk genitals
beat into submission at times
but never caressed by another.
The unwed homely
who never have
a happy wedded home
the shy who shy away from love,
the unattractive who know the cruelty
of laughter from the other sex.
must be a machine
cranking out irregulars
tailor made for the missed her
and Miss understoods of sorrow's
less than perfect plans.
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