I may be just dad …

I may be dad,

and my right to live forgotten;

I may be mad,

and so outwith those cool experiences we do like to call love;

I may be bad,

and have no right at all to stand tall in that community we call the peoplehood of ordinary peeps;

and I may be had,

as had as they see: as half-baked and cack-handed and piebald and bald bald as upper middle-aged folk ever come;

but even when all the above is quite true, I’d still like to find myself in fresh-sheeted bed with you: and what I’d do to your where is love you so well, and encase you so fine, and embrace you so full, and touch you over and over and over, and kiss you on your lips and on your tongue and on your sex, until your cries did run unceasingly, and your tiny death was right;

and then the world wouldn’t seem that bad,

and then – just maybe! – we might do some thing together to write the terrible wrongs of this terrifying global zemiological behaviour!


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