Today's hypothetical question: what toy makes you sad to be too old for it?
Unrelated eulogistic hash below. This poem is about an imaginary person who dies because he is anti wiretapping or some shit. It is very relevant and inexpensive.
REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE THE SIREN?
Remind me again why we need you for this last
trick? Anyone can call it like it be, argh, unravel
arias gagged, then trip ass wise off a gangplank.
Good job. Your last. Sure, you'll be missed, you were a
good man, just like we found him, officer. I swear.
Belly full of axle grease, head a library of matches.
I did not trust you, no, next to certain flares.
Folks can tell between sincerity and contortion.
You had that "let's give it a go! yee-haw! fo sho!"
kind of thing that nobody bought into and I bet that
blew. You kept lecturing us down from a sorrow we
wanted (no shit) like the weird teeth of the cool kids.
But I do remember seven things: your shower sandals,
your model railroads, your irrefutable evidence—
okay, this is adding me back up. Not all of you is right
here, but I will miss our epic sojourns which I was very
bad at. Basketball, omelettes, pimping. All of it.
Officer, I swear: I will miss him. I will I will.
But I've organized these songs by emotion, so I'm set.
Now, if I can just find where I left his name.