I’m cauliflower
I’m the bland sibling to big brother broccoli,
no plump, proud plumage on top of me,
just a colourless, crumbling cloud for hair
even Envy chose to share its green with him, from top to bottom
despite me and the sin having much more in common

if I’m thin, he’s thinner
he’s slimmer, I’m dimmer
he’s the cats cream and I’m the dogs dinner,
I’m onto a winner and he’s already won,
if I love to the moon and back,
he’s loved to the sun
in terms of cars, im a punto,
cheerful, chippy and cheap,
in terms of cars, he’s a beamer,
that one with heated seats
warming a rich bottom to the purr of v8,
whereas the large weight of my owner makes the car not drive straight

he’s the roquefort to my cheddar,
the Gerrard screamer to my peter crouch header,
featherweight contender is the best I could do,
heavyweight champion is just him through and through

a specimen, he’s high art,
chiselled body, chiselled mind
but, bloody hell, it must so boring
to be so perfect all the time


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