Now I know what was wrong.
You'd never scratch, you'd never screech, you'd never make a peep, you'd just stand there with your vinyl pants clinging to the back of your shanks trying to spread, to accomodate, and you'd lick the wall thinking:
But humour me, poetic licence and all? Try to tell me to piss off little wanker, try to push me off ya.
You were born helpless.