Makes Me Nervous

Nerves make me sweat, down my neck, down my face, across my chest, across my back. I can’t help it, I sweat. Drip, drip. I’d make a lousy drug mule out of Bali, I’d get stopped no doubt. Locked away, Bali 9. That body bandage would slip right off. The condom would probably shoot right out of my arse, into the customs Lesbos lap. The world should legalise drugs, just to take away the doubt. I’d make a lousy con artist, even kids would pick me out. The pen would slide around in my hand, as I signed the dodgy contract, as my arms pits started to gush. More is the pity. If ever I’m heading into a meeting that I feel nervous about, I can feel the back of my shirt stick to my back. Grrr! It’s why I’m not good at lying, especially on a hot day. I’d fib and the next minute I’d glisten, easy to pick out. I’d lie and my undies would vacuum seal up my crack. I’d bend the truth and even my feet would sweat, if I had no socks on I’d be hardly able walk. Squelch, squelch.

I can’t imagine how I’d go with an axe, chop, chop, chop... when he was done, he gave his mother forty one! The axe would probably slip out of my hand, if the anger went off the boil.

“They’d” take one look at me and “they’d” know.

“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

I guess it’s a good reason why most of the time I’m accused of being too honest, too blunt, too forthright. It’s just fucken fear.