I was a lad bent on learning the talents
that all clever girls need to see.
Bit my sadness with patience,
with practise each day, then
in five years I'd be one to keep.

This moron marooned, a method mapped in my cocoon
to mould me into a mystery mensch.
No minutiae left unmastered,
music cred with mindful manners merge.
Once I metamorphose, certain I'd impress.

Year five, and now the one who dug me up
spent her wishes on a friend,
while forever I'll hold in peace these words unsaid.
Hopes wrapped in marinaded confections but
before tomorrow never sent.
Signed off "Love: Me" is how my life and letters end.

Morphined, I'll probably die pushing forty, exiled
to a sand castle built by low tide;
far too old to be martyred,
too young to grow smarter,
a mariner's child who hanged from this tie.

Panoramic prints pending my soon-to-be Moonie wedding,
fools once expecting their "Made in America" signs.
In a time capsule sealed
with pages of defeated spiels
lies that marionette in this heap of twisted twine.

All I know is that whoever finds me
keeps me solely for a pet.
With her "I do", my life in marriage
is choked down my no-hope chest.
Her lispy kiss unlucky for this chimney sweep,
indentures dumbed as a boy.
Whispered "adieu", I bade them to fare well,
then turned to hug the void.

But then I saw the world's a naked baby,
cradled safely in my lap.
It dropped a poop, but somehow I knew
to have a merry ol' laugh.
And now I wonder if the answer might be
to know: the rule for a girl
is that the boy who's to love her baby
should first love the world.

Moral is: it's up to me to be alert;
nothing comes a pure surprise.
Sometimes if it's all to work friends have to lie.
And sometimes situations seem the worst,
but in a year, they're never bad.
Five more, she'll dig up Bobtail's words--I'm not sad!

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