Look at you, on your bed,
listening to the Beatles.
Yesterday, the sun shone
on you — you knocked
on Theresa’s door
and she came running —
it was a good game you made up,
and she wanted to be
Bomber Star’s assistant,
yesterday.
Today, she wants to play
with this boy Rufus,
and you wouldn’t beg
to join in
for all the Pokemon figures
ever catalogued,
your tears wouldn’t wet
a bacterium,
you’re not playing with her
till every grain of iron sand
on Karekare beach
has been washed away
to America and back.
She’ll be sorry.
It was a good game,
Bomber Star.
She’ll be begging
to play it with you.