There's many child Wandering yet in me who should have Left his tenure long ago: Advisors to my thirty years, Infant pirates bent on seizure To this aging prize, in me faintly I hear the boy Who cried when kittens died. Though others, drowning in the obliterative tides Are stilled And settled now, artifact Of introspective yen only And wasting like reptilian Junk of dinosaurs In some quiet, sealed up pit. A tomb for most, I am For one the house of board and plenty. Man of childs, then Recall the sleepless boy of midnights, Resourceful in the penny wealth Of early sex, attentive to the beaten neighbor lady's Vile lament, who, husbanding desire then Wrenched and answer when Another lad heard angels in his sleep instead.