Dear Man Lee,
So this is how it’s supposed to go:
I eat the fruit of the seeds I sow,
And permit the weeds to grow and grow.
But can’t I take a moment to trim
All the excess fat and stretched out skin
Of the extra leaves hung on the limbs?
Can’t you see that I love my garden?
That I worked so damn fucking hard in?
Excuse my French I didn’t mean it.
So you see there’s just isn’t room
For a baby in this garden’s womb
Doomed to unnatural growth and acrid fume.
So its not that I don’t desire
To feed and care for my young flower,
I just forget, but not due to ire.
All of the world’s love I give to thee
Just don’t expect anymore from me.
Mother