(I  want to be a poem, a wave or a Golden Retriever; Jared Leto, or maybe Ben Affleck)

 

When I grow up if ever that is

What will I be, what’ll make me fizz?

 

A butcher, a baker, a sick candle maker

A tinker, a tailor a light-sabre sailor

Voyaging interstellar oceans high on beam-me-up potion

A blue lighted energy in my ship of plutonium

 

A lightning strike rhythm and lead guitar player

A sprinter, an actor, a Melbourne Cup Stayer

A balcony dweller contemplating the sea

But whatever it is, keep a look out for me

 

A singer, a poet in a cocktail mixer

Shaken not stirred this spy cough elixir

A doer of deeds, on white noble steeds

Obe Wan but taller and with wisdom to heed

 

Achieve peace in our time

And make made up words rhyme

Catch body waves with an offshore breeze

And learn to ride horses as they run through the trees

 

Curing the sick with the loaves and the fishes

A saver of life and doing its dishes

Masked in a cape of fine red golden thread

I’ll catch up with Superman, he’s just up ahead

 

And on that euphoric but natural high

My job description’s that “I’m going to fly”

Not speeding bullets nor single bounds

But with amplification make some very loud sounds

 

So just let me know when it’s time to start

Several billion beats left yet for this middle-aged heart

Therefore my existence I plan not to end

But to make someone smile by just pressing send.

 

So when I grow up what will I be?

A red glassed Berocca in a bubbling pink sea?

A career decision that I have to make

My job description in the wings it awaits

 

So dragons I’ll slay

Or maybe I’ll keep

Reptilian accessories are fashionably chic

In some TV shows and games played by Geeks

 

So what will life be on that grown up skymountain?

A leak-dribbling faucet or Neutronic fountain?

I’ll let you know when it’s there I arrive

Until then, like the Bee Gees, I’m “Stayin’ Alive”

 

Some misguided routes already misguidedly taken

So rebirth perhaps will perhaps re-awaken

But they’ve lead to a point where this first hundred years

Is well under way, sometimes with cheers, and at others times, tears

 

But the plan’s well laid now for when I grow up

I’ll willingly sip from that rebirthing cup