I half-desire those crappy days again
When babies used to be produced by sex,
Back before women washed their hands of men
And switched to being corporate execs.
Now, nearly forty, weary of their own
Private Lear-jets with uniformed wine-tasters,
They tap the sperm bank for a little loan,
Inseminate themselves with turkey-basters.
Those were the days of pumpkin pie and dads
Rigging kids' kites, grim days of no divorce,
Of home-brought bacon, nights out with the lads,
And mooseheads goggling from the mortgaged walls.
God was no vaguely feminine life-force
But old Pop Yahweh hung with beard and balls.
This poem first appeared in Blue Unicorn (October 1993) and was submitted to us by Robert Bly.
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