When on the clumsy side of thirteen
I was, too young to either rend, or pretend
to rend, like so many before me,
I used to play up around the bend.
And make the most of the few
moments I thought I knew
to belong to whatever they say
is, or was – my way in delay.
And they tapped, and they topped
me with the roses of bling,
spread me on a spade, but stopped
short of doing the real thing
to me. Oh, like a cat I fled,
and they would up, and follow
me. Every night my bed
was pure, was clean and hollow.
Up on the whistling reed you sit,
the red apple hard rocking robin of jism.
Now I'm older, but every fit-or-bit
of painfully adjusting my mannerism,
or collar to tie, as clumsy is
as I is, from A's to Z's.
And nothing ever comes as it is.
Now I'm older, but I still can't see
why they are dogging on me.
21 ноября 2021 г.