so, he's there whistling through
his missing front teeth,
he slobbers and pretends to stutter,
but he still manages to call
me papa smurf...
why the **** am i papa smurf?
so i ask him...
he replies saying,
you seen yourself in the mirror lately?
why aren't you shaving
that ****** off?
   oh right... the ****...
can't be bothered,
saving up on razors and what not...
conversation soon changes
and i'm out of the picture of
interest...
    papa smurf... **** me...
next time he'll be brining
the grizzly bear metaphor:
to be honest, kids below
the benchmark of 1m tall
find bearded men fascinating,
they shy away hiding behind
their parents' legs,
but they still peer at the *****
phenomenon: yeah, i know,
my face doesn't exactly look
like a ****, good luck
trying to sort out your puberty
conondrum years later
having tested this ugly mug.
well, last time i was buying beer
i was winking
and making 4 ****** expression
per second while suggesting
i was hallucinating looking
at this blonde haired boy...
wh'ah? wh'ah?
you heard me! he kept looking
at me!
   so i kept flicking the switch
and asking for the nervous
eyelid twitch to match
a donkey he might recognise...
i guess it worked,
minus the lightbulb moment:
either side of the equation;
guess that means:
                win                  win;
ah, the magnetism of
the correlated both of: young, & old;
i sometimes wish
i impregnated a *****
that could have appreciated me
as fulfilling the role of daddy...
oh well...
     better laugh, better cry,
than finding the everyday mundane
reality of the thought
of: what could have been.