The Boy in the Bubble II

I’ve had the art
of self-deprecation
down to a tee;
I’d yell at all the old men
on the green.
That’s self-sabotage:
there’s no playing golf
with me.

Not even would I try it,
even out of curiosity.
But that’s okay,
no probs,
fine by me.

In the hand of every golfer
is a nine iron
and in mine a beater’s club -
don’t ask me
to your private bar,
you elitist, racist thugs.

But I could have met a kind man;
he may have offered me
a job.

He would have invited me over,
with his wife and kids,
to Ibiza -
forgo the private yacht.

But I’m the Master
of depriving myself.
I’m the Captain of None.
I’ve been out here
in the cold so long
I barely recognise
the sun.

I’m the Champion
of lonely entitlement;
I’ve been in love
with my own struggle.

I should set a reminder:
there ain’t none blinder
than the boy
in the bubble.