He grows up believing in some magic above
hovering in rain clouds or beneath
wings of a dove flying over arches made of gold
and gates never cold. So he'd hold his palms clenched
and close both his eyes
as he wished he could rise to the skies like the birds
and be free of the terrors inflicted on Earth.
He grows up asking the powers that be
to accept his fair sacrifice
and just hear his plea, for a life somewhere better
with a unicorn or two
where he'd play cards with Jesus
and get a new tattoo. One that could dance,
like the arms of cartoons. He wants a woman with boobs.
And muscles like Arny (when he toned down a bit).
He asks for more money
and for sex and a car. And just to be funny
John Lennon's guitar.
But as he gets older, he's being ignored
He hates the cold shoulder, the lord struck a chord.
He hijacks the radio waves,
slaves away for days to save
a brave youth with no responsibility
and a bank account with close to zero equity.
They found his body naked
with red circles on him painted
fainted in a forest, nests of game disturbed
pecking at his balding scalp
which crushed some baby birds
and murdered families once hiding in trees.
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