Sin of self-love possesses all their muscles
and all their minds, and all their tiny souls
They prance and dance, speedo sprouts from Brussels
sideglancing my nonsurfing butt. Assholes.
They think no biceps is bigger than theirs
No sixpack more squarejawed or sixpacky
As they wave their surfboards and sunbleached hairs
to a chorus of girlfriends and lackeys
But when father time teams up with the sea
And salty windgusts have beaten and chopped
Their vain self-love will be quite contrary
The surftanned antiques’s self-love will be stopped.
It’s me, nonsurfer, the girls will adore
Touching my skin, soft, as theirs was before.