My mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

I could have been a writer,
a fighter,
a go-on-all-nighter,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

I could have been a genius,
a "do you think he’s seen us?",
a known face,
a leading light in the space race,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

I would still be married,
all my sex would be unhurried,
I’d still have my cat,
I wouldn’t be so fat,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

My plans would have become reality,
my path would not be insanity,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

I would have been good at maths,
I would have made far less gaffs,
I’d be admired, and liked
and people would laugh
like their drinks were spiked,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

My hair would be thicker,
my thoughts would be quicker,
I’d have a full-on tango-man
perma-tan,
but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy.

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