it was quite by accident
that i discovered Paul Young
in the garden that morning,
living under a hat.

he appeared to have
made himself quite at home
there although he admitted to
periods of abject loneliness.

i would visit him daily,
feeding him turnips,
the ends of which he
would store in his turn-ups.

upon arriving, he would beg
me to stay for good this time
but, having other things
to attend to, i never did.

however i did enjoy the feeling
of him next to me and so
every time i went away,
i would take a piece of him with me.

then one day, to my dismay,
i lifted up his hat, and found
there was no more of him left,
not even an ankle or an earlobe.

in a rage, i tore his playhouse down
before going inside to stroke
my cyndi lauper.