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The Syndrome

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Talking to ants
Making up a dance,
Staring at nothing in a trance
Flying to faraway lands

Riding a scooter
Saying how “I will shoot her”
Then mess with a tuner
“Go be maturer”

Riding toy trains at the mall
Going trick-or-treating every fall
Never grew too tall
Still take advice from a magic eight ball

Refusing to grow up
Never seemed so tough
Running out of luck.

The time has come,
Things are all set and done
To fly away from home
To a faraway land.

Where fairies pay taxes,
There’s no more playing with matches.

Tuners keep time
And keep me in line.

Being short is no long bad,
Adjust the seat and go

It’s time to fly far away
From Neverland.





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