"Pinocchio"

I’m not exactly

As I ought to be

Made of wood

And pleasantries.

Faith cast to form,

Less born than wrought

The nature my father’s

Rude hands.

I can feel the centuries

In my knees—

They’ll not lie, they stood,

Making pace with the earth.

Still I can spit and

Piss with the best of them.

Drink my weight in wine,

Sing a chorus out of turn.

I’m sure one day

They’ll nail me down

And crown me with

A broken toy—

They’ll dance around me

As I burn.

And a simple wooden urn

Hold my ashen soul at bay

They’ll bury in

The woodland cold.