he got them in a box, over Christmas
and he wore them everyday that week
the pyjamas, they were blue and white
oh how cozy he was each night

at age eight, the world was his oyster
and he dreamed of hanging bridges
the pyjamas, they made him fly
oh how, how he soared so very high

he tucked them away, as the flowers grew
and away they were kept year by year

the boy still closed his eyes, though
he was led into a world, by himself
the pyjamas, they were catching dust
this world, a place oozing with lust

he glanced at them, as the flowers wilted
and glanced at they were, year by year

it started a crack in the boy's voice
Peter Pan was now fictional
the pyjamas, were still there for him
but he, took each day with more grim

he opened the box in his closet, as the flowers grew again

it was a metamorphosis
you could even tell by the hair on his face
the pyjamas, they no longer fit
and now he, had a reputation of grit

he tucked them away, as the flowers grew
and away they were kept year by year

his son received something similar, over Christmas
the little boy hoped for a video game
the pyjamas, still blue and white
held less significance at night*




it was time to throw his pyjamas away
he burnt his child-like innocence, as
his memories - slowly - became dull, and grey