Friday, October 27, 2006

Jan Oskar Hansen

Happy Childhood

Since a boy I had been looking for fabled,
“happy childhood,” the one in books with
rich, sober parents, big garden and a pony.

Looked everywhere, was blinded by spindrift,
and white seas, climbed foggy mountains;
smoked a lot and fell into roadside ditches.

Trekked through Australia, crocodiles, and
people who called me “mate” they didn’t have
clue, nor did anyone in 42nd street New York.

Years passed desperate, asked a rich couple
to adopt me, they were friendly, but felt
an adoptee ought to be one not as old as me.

Settled in a green vale, adopted myself, I’m
my father now, he spoils me rotten and, at
last, 97 next year, I enjoy a happy childhood.

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