Left on the Shelf

Left on the shelf

Here you are, plonked in with all rest,

A parading game of who can look the best.

Shouldered right bang in the middle of the shelf,

Eagle eyed, comparing everyone to yourself.

 

To the left of you, an ever hopeful tin of green peas,

You know they’re fucked, of course you’d use the ones in the deep freeze.

And to your right? The nations favourite, that being baked beans.

The classic, the one that’s blessed with all the good genes

 

You watch on ahead, at the ones daring to be bold.

The ones who know they’re never going to grow mold.

Like marmite, who revels being the one to love or hate,

Knows they’ll get picked, wherever, no matter what their state.

 

You can’t help but compare yourself to the others around,

You think, maybe if I didn’t weigh that extra pound?

You revamp yourself, perhaps with a bright new lid,

Anything that’s not cool, you want to get rid.

 

Left on the shelf, you forever wait for the hand to descend,

Only to have watched it go and pick your friends.

Tick tock, tick tock,

All you can do is watch the biological clock.

 

I suppose it could be a lot worse you think,

You’re not at the back with the jar of pickles that stink.

Or in this age of dairy and gluten frees,

You’re not the tinned milk, or the processed cheese.

 

And if marmalade can make a come-back,

Who’s to say you’ll remain slap bang, middle of the pack?

It’s never worth it to become desperate enough to plea,

Clearly no one can be everyone’s cup of tea.

 

Your sidled up to everyone who’s different but the same,

All taking part in this unspoken game.

But you know now that although you’re still left on the shelf,

You’ve learned to stop always judging oneself.

 

Words by: Emma Mason