I was about 8 months in when I held my first strap,
Caressed by her hips, I held it firmly on my lap.
The layers of my fat had hidden what the handle created as a bulge,
Not even the cops that had passed, knew the actions in which I indulge.
The mighty 14 shooter, chiseled perfectly in chrome and black,
I now understand its glory, as for it addicts do battle, its presence, much like crack.
Back to back, we faced each other,
As I pray for safety, that nothing harms my mother.
Ecstatically I jumped, bussing a move, a twirl, a dance,
Inflicting the pain within, as she's determined to keep her stance
Celebrating her victory, not knowing the pain that I caused,
While I stood there wondering and concerned why she paused.
Over two decades later, he still can see the scar
That was caused by the precocious child, morphing into a protostar,
Constructing a family of his own, he ensured his juniors met not the same fate,
As he gobbled up all the dangers, leaving none on their plate
His wife, though not in agreement, reveled at her birth,
Worried about her purse, and the resilience of its girth.
As they were in a predicament, that the driver had not measured,
But, I'll return in a few years from now, updating on the storms that they have weathered.
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