I could blame it on my childhood diet of the Nonsense
of Edward Lear,
The Wooden-tops, Loobyloo, Noddy or Shaka with his
fierce looking spear,
I still talk to the Jabberwocky, Dougal, Pooh &
Roo under the old bong tree,
I long to sail in a pea-green boat with owl &
pussy cat out to the big blue sea,
Alice´s wonderland, Narnia, Avalon & to dance down
that yellow brick road,
Cowboys & Indians, cops & robbers, or my face
painted in blue primitive woad,
Magic Roundabout, Bill & Ben, Sooty & Kipling´s
Kim, Kaa & maybe Gungadin,
Zebedee, Paddington, Camberwick-Green, pirates, Popeye
& clever little Tin Tin,
Fed on pages of words, stories & tales of magical
worlds that transformed & lied,
Childhood fantasies where all was fun & where
tucked away, a child could hide,
With passing years it suddenly ended, I was told, “you’re
too old now to pretend”,
Yanked cruelly away from my little world, from all my
magical & invisible friends,
Launched as a rocket into the harsh real world, of
that terrible place of adulthood,
Where there was no colour, no love, where nobody
listened & nobody understood,
That grown-up world that I stumbled upon, when I was
finally & so rapidly grown,
Was such a fast, hard & lonely place that was so
cold & shivering, made me groan,
I’ve been told
by many folk & many a time, that I am eccentric & totally, utterly mad,
That by becoming of age is something I should relish
& something to make me glad,
But I so want to return to those halcyon innocent days
within colourful mystical pages,
Where one is a child forever in a beautiful world,
which lasts for long & magical ages.
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