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Birthday Poem for David

So what is it like to be 30?
Are you sitting in some favorite chair
thinking of all the things you did
when you were ten?
Are you thinking about that first
girl you kissed, the day you
received tongue for the first time
and there was no name for what had just happened?
Maybe you couldn't wait,
or maybe it dropped down on you
like a grand piano from a four-story window?
Tell me, how do you feel?
Do you feel any strange sensations in your legs or feet?
Have you developed the strength of ten men?
Whatever you do, don't tell me
it's not a big deal.
If you ask me, you don't look
a day over seventeen.
The things you have accomplished
are like parting gifts.
You're old enough to talk back to your parents now.
You can stay out as late as you want
without anyone asking where the hell you've been.
You can stick both hands in the cookie jar
and curfews are out of the question.
You can wear what you want.
Do the world a favor and bring back
Mohawks, vinyl records and stone washed jeans.
Pretty please.
Bring back Culture Club, The Psychedelic Furs and Madonna
before she became a mini-van mom with disgusting dirty blond hair.
You have power. You can run for president,
be the juror to find OJ Simpson guilty.
Let's go kick Mark Fuhrman's ass.
Being thirty means you can dump a bucket of pigs'
blood on Ronald Reagan's head.
Susie can pull the rope
and I'll be armed to the teeth
with water guns for secret service agents.
You're a hero that makes Superman
look like a flaming sissy.
His dick packed tight like kryptonite in blue panty hose.
I think you should throw a party
and invite all your high school bullies
and use them as jack asses to pin the tail on.
The birthday cake should be shaped
like a movie star you hate
where you have first dibs
at cutting the body part of your choice.
Who the hell wants a piece?

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