Little baby

You always prevaricate me into something else
One minute I have good intentions
The next I am examining my navel
What power have you to distort and distend
(when all I wanted was a friend)
From a position of responsible humility
I appear reckless and spendthrift
What powers have thee over history?
From a position of seeking knowledge
I am forced to be a maverick
What is this strange power over me?
Is it that I am a baby and you a wizened crone
or is it from the time I said ‘Mom, I don’t want to come home,’
Now the cat is out of the bag and I wonder
Will you track me down and make me pay?
Or will I live to fight another day alone
And then like Charles Bronson walk you home?
One thing is sure there will never ever be another
like you Mom, Father, Sister, Lover, Brother.

by Andrew Watkins


Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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