When I was ten (back when the
Sunday-school purpose-of-life was
never to tell a lie and to think only
pure thoughts) I could never dig what
Popeye saw in librarian-plain Olive Oyl
What was keeping me up nights was
the little independent theater in my head
starring those jailbait Disney girls of Peter Pan
the mermaids of Marooner's Rock, the real
reason for flying into Neverland for the weekend
Scantily-clad and always
happy to see you, the island girls'
welcoming and entertainment committee
for lost boys looking for
a bit of R-and-R
Sweet petite Tinkerbell,
all pouty and deliciously jealous
in that hot little jungle-green number
and those legs, Mr. Disney—
what were you thinking?
Oh I might not choose
to swing on a star
but hey, carry ‘moonbeams’
home in a jar?
back to my room?
And of course Wendy, my first pin-up
gliding around night and day in little more than
her modest and sexy powder-blue nightgown and slippers
more than willing to play house, darn your socks
or sew your shadow back on
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