Am I supposed to believe
That the Humble Narrator
Committed all of those ghastly crimes,
Survived the wretchedness of prisons
In what might have been the cure
That removed from his only likable joy
Classical music and induced sickness
When the violent tendencies arose
Was able to be deprogrammed
So his worst nature would reveal itself again
Only to realize that his awfulness
Was only really the product of youth, that
He simply needed to grow up?
One of the first movies to get me thinking
Involved the Humble Narrator,
At sixteen, I could not understand
Milk as an intoxicating beverage, or
The violence a young protagonist
Seemed hell-bent on inflicting on others.
In my advanced age of maturity,
I sill don’t get those things,
Although, when Wynton plays classical, I stop,
And almond milk is good, especially in oatmeal,
But I understand violence, even anger, less and less.
So why is it so hard for me,
An aging, matured person, to believe young Alex
Could figure life out, but about twenty.
Because I can’t,
And if you tell me otherwise
I’ll kick and stomp and pout like I’m a president or something
Until we come to blows,
In an octagon, on an island, with no fans,
For pay per view.
Really, it’s not hard to believe that people mature
And it all ends happily ever after.
I hear Pachelbel…