Why must it always be me,
when simple situations go so wrong,
when notes get sung discordantly,
to sabotage our sing-a-long?
When human interaction goes askew,
must it always be me, but somehow never you?
When plans we made derail and go awry,
when bombs go off to rain on our parade,
how come I always get to be the guy,
whose pride must die on top of the grenade?
Why must I play the part of the community spitoon,
the bucket where you spit your human foibles,
your handy local rent-a-loon,
collecting fumbled forks kicked under tables?
When kitchen conversations break off jagged,
when pointed sideways glances are exchanged,
when flatlines take the place of the zig-zagged,
why must I be the guy you look at strange?
When random factors intervene,
and send a situation south,
why must these sorry words that I don’t mean,
come spewing forth like swear words from my mouth,
to fill the scary gaps left in between?
When rogue unwanted shoes appear,
and asymmetric panic grips the herd,
you change into your cattle gear,
and sheep me till the burden gets deferred.
Why must this shoe blame sit with me,
when equally it could be you?
Your blacksmith shod too hastily,
the other foot could fit this shoe.
Plus shoes can spring up randomly,
I’ve seen it so I know it’s true.
Some misplaced knee-jerk honour code,
to help a stranger in a fix,
to dodge an awkward episode,
by giving in at pick-up sticks.
That awful moment in the street,
when normal human walking ways,
have been forsaken by our feet,
to leave us oddly out of phase.
In mirrored disarray we meet,
locked up in tortured dance displays.
A scene we’d just as soon delete,
as passers-by look on amazed.
But why must it be me with two left hooves?
Somehow you always take the part of Tony,
while I get to be the Jet who fluffed the moves.
Your Tony tricks are obvious baloney!
It’s lonely at the butt of all your twisted West Side truths.
When out of nowhere suddenly,
incendiary misunderstandings sprout,
why must I step begrudgingly,
into the fray to put the wildfires out?
Why must I be a traitor to my truth,
to succor icky feelings of unease,
while savvy ones recoil and act aloof,
and wait for me to weaken at the knees.
Why must it be me when the spillages happen,
the vacuum cleaner sucking up the blame?
Trapped in a sorry self-fulfilling pattern,
a martyrdom of misplaced Hoover shame.
I swear tomorrow I will go a day,
where it’s no longer me who must.
I’ll strain to balk at taking the blame,
my broken moral compass I’ll adjust.
I’ll huff and tut as I calmly walk away,
looking back at you in cold disgust,
to leave you asking why it’s you today,
who gets to be the one who must.