I’ve blackheads and zits; my complexion I’m cursin'.
As I cry, I sigh, why me, unlucky guy?!
It’s my epidermis I torque; it’s in tatters. . .
fiendish tweezing, tweaking, then ointments apply.

I am pissed, cross; pustules I can’t abide.

Got more zits than I can shake a stick at. . .young male;
when I was just fourteen, the problem did start—
that’s when I became a makeup-wearer. . .
put it on there: my cheeks sans hair.
Clearasil was the drill, covered with mask.
I’m rocked and shocked and frocked with pocks that make their mark.

Tear dermis till it smarts. More are turning up!

Pimple-squeeze phase, skin maimed, of that I am ashamed. . .
must stop feedin’ on fats, sweets, sugars, and starch.
As I mirror-stand each day I’m pokin’.
I snort, glower. . .madness ire.
Then a drenchin’ gush—looks like I’m larded.
To girls it’s a turnoff; their comments can be arch.

Burnt orange, color of the stuff on my face parked.
I am the best customer at the zit-cream mart;
each week I use a ton and then I’m off for more,
and when I pop ’em, pus up to the ceiling soars.
My puss a Gettysburg with seven and four score.
I wonder what my future face will have in store?
Sure hope it’s something that the ladies will adore.

But till then, into this lunar landscape I bore.