The young boy in me has Been lost with the wind, Carrying with it traces Of my tainted childhood. On those days when Mother would read us to sleep She'd say There'd be days We'd find comfort in the arms of another. Perhaps If she remembered To mention That every girl was once a mother Trained in the art of birthing certain emotions, Destructive to the opposite gender. Maybe then naive boys like us Would have been open to the irony, That boys, or little men like us, Could end up wound up- in The open arms of tragedy.