Oh! I cant get no ...... satisfaction.

I have a cubicle and Yes its small,
Funny enough it has four walls.
I climb into it through the roof,
Once inside I am idiot proof.
I sit at my desk and begin to ponder,
Maybe i would be good as a song writer.
I could be a Manson, or a James Blunt,
But I'm scared of sopranos and Gothic stunts.
Maybe I could be a Kurt Cobain,
Singing about being mad whilst going insane.
Maybe I should just stick to the classics,
BB King , Frank Sinatra and the Kinks?
All these are really what others would desire,
Ironically my disposition is not so dire.
What I would really like to be is a poignant dagger,
Hey I know what your thinking , I could be Mick Jagger.
With my visage I would be a good looking bloke,
Girls swaying to my every guitar stroke.
I could pout my lips and prance
Quiet like the antiquated ostrich dance.
I could really just paint it all black,
In my closet my Grammies I will stack.
When I visit Wembly, Rain forests would fall,
Just to answer the ticketing call.
I would sing till i was Eighty Four.
Then come back at ninety for a reunion tour.
But most of all I would really really like,
In mid song to French kiss my mic.
I would be called Sigmond, the new Mick Jagger,
Only hes more hung and is a true rocker.
All this Dreaming has made me a believer,
To lunch i shall go and shred the speaker.
My nemesis the Karaoke machine sits still,
Until i turn it own by pure power of the will.
The mic crackles and the audience is in awe,
Never mind they are just bangers , mash and coleslaw.
I take the mic in hand and unleash my inner rock,
My inner golden god is unlocked.
Lunch is over to my cubicle i retire,
This is just the end of the beginning of my satire


Sigmond Just got his Satisfaction