Slightly larger was his head,

shortly literally was his neck,

and larger than life was his hungry hair-line.

He was Milton.

Milt for short.

To aunts he was rosy cheeks to pinch,

to bullies he was four eyes to break,

and to Momma he was a sensitive boy.

But always he felt different,

a Floyd of freaks, a Dwayne of dorks,

and a Leroy of look-out peaks.

Still the clock talked,

and time rolled with Alice's White Rabbit.

Financially he thrived

where physically he had plumped.

Shavers buzzed where flannel covers gambled.

He was a 33-year-old banking executive;

owner of a cherry red Corvette

who called Florida once a week for

updates on the best blue-haired buffets.

Yet, behind the Pearl Vision glasses

and Giorgio Armani suit,

a little boy of six peeked out and shouted,

"No!"