Oh I wish I were a synaesthete
With a sense of rhythm up my nose
I would sniff the Vapours’ comeback album
I would smell the Damned's ‘New Rose'
With aroma in my ossicles
With flavour in my eyes
I would watch Nigella Lawson cook
Two hot stargazy pies
I would feel her raspberry ripples
Hear her cumin as she fries
I would get squiffy off her tipples
As my sense of self-worth dies
Oh I wish I were a synaesthete
With eyesight in my ears
I would see the point of Coldplay
It's escaped me all these years
My catchy cover version
Would let music through my skin
I would slap on total sun-block
And not let Bono in
Oh I wish I were a synaesthete
With olfactory toes
My feet would smell
But on my behalf
My socks yell, ‘Thar she blows’
With Lemsip in my foot-spa
And Strepsils for my corn
My verrucas full of chutzpah
Body piercings would adorn
This season's Gucci plaster
Gives my bunion a sense of style
My Armani-inspired athlete's foot
A reluctant tax exile
Oh I wish I were a synaesthete
With gustatory hands
To touch the finger buffet
Would meet my umami demands
With colours in my temper
And my shocking sense of taste
If I made anyone see red
I could blame harissa paste
No calories ingested
But with two hands full of food
I would know why Colonel Sanders said,
‘It's fingerlickin’ good’
But I am neurotypical
I've no reason to complain
So I wish for a sense of kinship
Synaesthetes: do you feel my pain?
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