Oh, imagine being
a working-class nobody
in some distant age,
when poverty
and lung disease
could still be viewed
with romanticism.
A Charles Dickens
sort of wretched life,
yet somehow
to be lived with pride.
Soot in the lungs,
filth in the fingernails,
and just enough misery
to make future generations
call it character.
The rich would pity you,
the novelists would adore you,
and everyone would agree
you had a certain grimy charm
right up until
you coughed yourself
into an early grave.
Still,
there’s something to be said
for a life so appalling
it eventually becomes
picturesque.
- IF I WERE A MUPPET














