Being A Grown-Up Means Nothing

come on, Iggy, don't let me down
don't tune my guitar down
one step, two step
half-step, you bastard
I lost my tuner last week
I can't do any fixin to your breaking
and you tell me
"your face changes when you
put your glasses back on --
stop hiding behind lenses"
But I won't because
I am three and I am
petulant and I want
another lung cookie, dad.
You keep telling me to make music
you keep telling me to sing songs
but you never leave me alone
for very long
and my muse prefers
nakedness,
but she's shy and turning
your back won't do --
so would you please leave the room?
and while you're gone, I will
open my bedroom window
because I am six and I am
petulant and I want
another man's arms --
my muse prefers nakedness --
to be in front of him.
And he'll dip me backwards
and buy me flowers
and teach me the body poetic
the body electric
because we are seventeen and
we are petulant and we want
to know what its like
to keen.
And when you come home,
you'll just be alone because
I'm alone
my muse prefers nakedness
and the solitude of pines these days.