There’s no treading on my feet. There’s no kneading of bread. There’s no burning my hand on a George Foreman grill. There’s no loss of balance at higher altitude. Not with with me mate. Not with me.
I got flip flops where my hands should be friend. I got chianti from a Polish decanter. I got saucepan lids, bits of fluff and I have failed to be a key player in a number of people’s dreams. I get to be a keyboard player in my own bontempi story, ineptly hitting b flats at inappropriate moments in the school play. A triangle player of doom and no mistake guvnor.