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I like to sing. I like to play.
I like to wile away the day
with hours of dolls
crouched on hours of games.
Should I be plagued by shames,
If I sometimes coat myself with muck
And run screaming through the house’s halls,
leaving the mud as it falls.
Mother-Ma’am, she blames and scolds
That I’m to old to be young
and to young to be old.
But, if that’s so, what can I be,
If Mother-Ma’am says I can’t be me.
I am the lion and I am the lamb.
I am the wind and the screen door it slams.
I am all existence. I may even be God.
Either that or just his lightning rod.
“But I don’t know yet,” I tell Mother-Ma’am.
“Do not regret that you don’t have a plan,”
She whispers to me, my Mother-Ma’am.
“You may not no yet, but you’re gonna find out.
You’re gonna be great, I don’t have one doubt.”