The doctor told my mother right when I was born
He said it with the utmost respect
"My dear lady your son is condemned
If he survives he'll have a small defect"
How wonderful I later survived
You may ask what is imperfect
It's that sometimes my thoughts stutter
And when my mind gets a bit stuck
I say nothing my mouth doesn't move
And I'm forced to count up to nine
It's quite a bothersome thing
With girls it's really not good
When I talk to a girl she grows old
Due to the slowness in my speech
And the embarrassment I won't tell
If my listener goes mad
When I ask for fruit and greens
The unripe fruit becomes ripe
And my friends aware of my defect
Out of respect ask and count to ten
I want to speak normally too
Without this stuttering thought
Apelles son of Apollo made a ball of chicken skin
Three tigers against three tigers over the goat that lives
One day I'll be a great speaker
I'll speak so fast
That a two-hour speech
I'll deliver in no time
And everyone will applaud
For my diction
And I'll perfect my intonation
I'll be so fast
I'll surpass light
And everyone will wonder
How I can speak without stuttering
I won't have this stuttering thought anymore
Eh well meanwhile as I learn to speak fast
I'll continue with mimics there I can be fast
While someone speaks to me I respond like this (all mimics)
The stuttering thought
Doesn't leave my mind
It hides and suddenly
Makes me indecisive
Everyone is imperfect
Everyone has flaws
In fact
But how boring it would be
If everyone were the same
This world would then seem
Only good or only bad
So in the end what matters
If someone laughs
That I don't have a ready word
Then maybe they'll think
"What flaws do I have
How many laugh at me?"
You laugh at me I laugh at you
I at myself and you at yourself
Here neither you nor I are God
With every skill
You say it and I'll say it too
Long live diversity!