Military One-Step

Marching with glee, we wear a glamoured uniform,
the boots and tunics quite as tight a fit
as the mind's storm-trooping jump-suit.
We believe the bright and shining lie:
in the collective 'be all you can be'-
our numbers right by might of weight.

And if you hesitate, this short, defiant wait
has you out of step, in unacceptable form;
as monstrous as a gravid worker bee,
or renegade ant, no longer snugly fit
for purpose. How brave to have ambition lie
outside cosy parameters cut and sliced to suit.

Sarcasm coats the flip rejoinder, 'Suit
yourself!' A shoulder shrug bestows the weight
of expectation, as you assume the lifetime lie
you present to others. A mask to misinform,
for fear of a rabid conniption fit
that might ensue if ever it ceased to be.

Autonomy's challenge spurned, maybe,
the pin-stripe over a jester's motley suit,
nose in the mud to truffle for profit
without honour. Happy the man to wait
for Buggins' turn; to run behind and form
the queue to play the jokers where they lie.

Where to turn for one with whom to ally?
Face outward where the truth must be;
where fruit grows in natural twisted form,
where nature nurtures and not to suit
a limit of size, or shape, or weight;
where to be ideal is not to fit.

Such varied fleshy products fit
to bust the sausage skins. We lie
to ourselves about contents, feel the weight -
ignore the quality - the offal that must be
inside; heart, liver, lights; parts that suit
the body's purpose although we abhor their form.

Yet though the outward form seems a truly tailored fit,
if you slough the suit, leave aside the uniform lie,
who knows what you'd be, if you dropped this useless weight?