There’s nothing about him to mark him as special
That well dressed boy in old London town
A dapper young chap, just minding his own
In polished black shoes, makes a clacking sound

He coats his legs in skin-tight jeans
They might as well be painted on
A vision in white and black and grey
Like a Photoshop painting in monochrome

Expertly tousled, his hair defines physics
The wind never dares move a single strand
He wears large black glasses, you can’t see his eyes
And he carries a large, neat briefcase in hand

Yet despite his good looks and aloof demeanour
He’s not that special, not one of a kind
Just another one of those damned metrosexuals
They love buying shoes, but are as straight as a line

He could be a banker; he could be a rent boy
Perhaps he’s a wanker; perhaps he’s a god
Fine chiselled features, a sense of importance
There’s nothing about him proclaiming him odd

But this lad holds a secret, one he can’t share
It burns him and churns him and makes him upset
Curiosity killed the cat, so they say,
But this cat’s still got eight lives left yet