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Tick-Talk MAG
Slightly larger was his head,
shortly literally was his neck,
and larger than life was his hungry hair-line.
He was Milton.
Milt for short.
To aunts he was rosy cheeks to pinch,
to bullies he was four eyes to break,
and to Momma he was a sensitive boy.
But always he felt different,
a Floyd of freaks, a Dwayne of dorks,
and a Leroy of look-out peaks.
Still the clock talked,
and time rolled with Alice's White Rabbit.
Financially he thrived
where physically he had plumped.
Shavers buzzed where flannel covers gambled.
He was a 33-year-old banking executive;
owner of a cherry red Corvette
who called Florida once a week for
updates on the best blue-haired buffets.
Yet, behind the Pearl Vision glasses
and Giorgio Armani suit,
a little boy of six peeked out and shouted,
"No!"
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