Uniform

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 small, defiant wait

is out of step, in unacceptable form;

as hideous 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 find 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?