A Real Man?

A Real Man?

I often recall the time a tough

Miner said, I wasn’t man-enough,

Upon intervening between his

Mate and me, one night, on the piss,

In the Labour club in ’84,

Where they were bedding on the floor,

During the war between the NUM,

And the cabinet in number ten;

And I wish I could say I was there

In support, but I didn’t much care

For politics back then-left or right-

And the reason I nearly had a fight,

Was mainly down to me being

Jealous over this girl I was seeing,

Near-snogging the miner she’d got talking too

Last night, who’d bought her drink or two.

But that’s by the by: my present intention,

Is to draw my audience’s attention

To the second line of this poem-stroke-rhyme,

In order to say: forty odd years later; whilst I’m

Still nowhere near man-enough, or at least

Not enough to take on an alpha-male beast;

I’ve now reached the point where for all my mistakes,

I’m fine with having not got what it takes;

I’d even go as far as to say

I’m grateful for not being made that way;

I’d rather labour everyday

To improve on who I was yesterday:

I want to be better, more feministic,

And less toxic and chauvinistic

Than the man who, last night, went to sleep,

Counting his blessings in lieu of sheep.

His blessings: mine; are the women I know;

Every one of whom, whether hid or on show;

Have scars, courtesy of man-enough men,

And if I had my time over again…

But what of it?

For now, I’m aware of the lake,

And the ripples of everyone’s mistake,

And though I’m far from being a good guy,

My fantastic friends give me reason to try.