Papa's Poem Corner: Revisited

September 16th, 2004:
Hello again friends, family, and all prenatal companions! No, this is not the re-induction of Papa's Poem Corner. (Although there have been many unconfirmed rumors floating around that we haven't seen the last of it.) Think of this more as the reuniting of long lost friends who had a falling out cause they were stubborn and bitter, but are on the fast track to making amends. No, they're not ready yet to get back together and pick up where they left off, but yes for this brief moment, they will lay all hurt feelings and resentments aside for one night of unadulterated ROCK! Anyway, as many are aware, I passed a birthday stone this past Saturday. The big 22. (That is how many years I have been alive now.) In honor of this momentuous occasion, I couldn't help but have a poem in my heart (and when that happens you'd better believe that there is NOTHING you can do to stop it from spewing forth real frothily like. Very dangerous. Much better to let it out in a safe and controlled environment I say). So here she is. She's my birthday poem. Really she is the expoundation of a short song I began to write on my mission.


Papa's 22nd Birthday Poem

My genetic code screwed me over.
My genetic code screwed me over.
Cause puberty left me behind.
Now I'll never be a hairy guy.

Where can I find the path to manhood?
Is it hiding in the woods?
Or must I dive deep into the oceans?
No it's probably in the woods.

I will go and live amongst the forresters.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
And learn their ways, eat their foods.
And learn to play, their manly flutes.

Oh Lady Puberty! Invest in me thy trust!
Sprinkle me with your magic Mandust!
Let my chest hairs grow strong and curly!
So I can put corn rows in my tuft!
I feel my soul is getting older
Buy I still look like I'm fourteen.
The future's bleak...
An old man trapped in a little girl's body.


Thank you all for indulging me in this little guilty pleasure of mine. They say poetry soothes the addiction to PEZ and I really think it is working. Whenever my supply runs low, I just fall into the beauty and sweet sweet harmony of rhyme to alleviate my need for those preciously deliscious candy treats.
Love,
Papa

p.s. This poem and message was hand-typed by what El Señor Morales (My Spanish 3050 teacher) has dubbed "Las Manos Lindas" (which roughly means "Pretty Hands") He liked 'em real good.