Oh Baby

This is the story of a sorry young man,

I’d like to tell you, if I can,

            I hope this story will serve as proof,

That he is quite the troubled youth.

He wears a thick coat all the time,

Wears this coat come rain or shine,

He’s no desire for a place of his own,

He plans forever, to live at home.

And, I’m afraid, he is awkward and shy,

He never made friends, didn’t even try.

He was home schooled by his mum and dad,

(A result of some mid-life hippy fad).

His parents, you see,

                        Were prone to a whim

            And he resented that it affected him.

His parents were sometimes strange with each other…

            His father rarely touched his mother

Since she’d given birth, dad said,

            She prefers to sleep in her own bed.

His family did everything as a whole,

All three together

that was the rule.

Three chairs at the table

            (they didn’t have guests, they felt weren’t able)

One bed for dad,

            One for mom,

                        And a bed in their room for their little one.

In the mornings when they rose,

They’d strech their backs and touch their toes,

            Laid their spoons next to their bowls

Left the kettle over hot coals.

                        Went out for a morning walk,

And of the important thoughts they’d talk.

(The walk was part of his home-schooling,

And while they were out, their breakfast was cooling,)

They slept, they ate, watched TV,

Never alone, but as a three.

Then his father stopped coming on their morning stroll,

            He’d stay at home, on the whole.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he would say,

“So it can cool while your away.”

But he was lying,

            That was rot,

When they got back it was always hot.

The young boy wondered what his father did,

            There must be something that his father hid…

He demanded that his father come,

            On one walk with him and mum.

His father agreed, his smile faltered,

And on that day his life was altered…           

When they got home, things had changed,

            Something was different, something was strange…

They went upstairs and low and behold,

            All their pillows were fanned with gold

And in the smallest of the beds

Lay the goldest golden head.

His father shouted “Oh Goldi-… ummm who?

            “Er what are you doing… um who are you?”

The girl woke up with a look of surprise,

            Looked at papa with her bright blue eyes,

“Oh shit,” she said, “I think I’ll go…”

And she slipped out the window.

The papers printed the news,

About the intruder with golden hues,

SHE BROKE INTO THEIR HOUSE, THEY DIDN’T KNOW HOW

            The story is urban legend now.

“I don’t understand it”

                        father said

Raised his shoulders, scratched his head.

The boy stood quietly by his bed,

            His sheets still warm, a few remaining golden threads.

He lay awake all of that night,

            Awake still when it got light.

His father snored, his mother was dossing,

But he spent the whole night tossing.

He was up

When they came down

They smiled

He frowned

His eyes were dark; he broke out in spots.

And became sort of sullen a lot.

His mother cooed and stroked his cheek,

            My poor baby’s tired and feeling weak.

But since that night he’s slept sound,

                        Because he likes what he has found

            In his dreams he finds the blonde

And in that dream of which he’s fond

He reaches out to touch her hair

            To touch it with the greatest care

But as he’d reach out to hold her

            His mother would wake him,

Touch his shoulder

“Come on son, rise and shine

Your porridge is ready, so is mine.”

He didn’t care.

Everyday

              That’s what she’d say

It wasn’t fair.

It was more than he could bear.