When I stacked Bugles on fingertips

When I stacked Bugles on fingertips,
bounding on beds throwing fits,
birthdays were for me with presents not weapons
against demons, how fulfilling was fun? back then
when I played to play–for I must–
’till time was told by dusk,
when chimney smoke and riding bikes were fall,
no note of the girls dressed half as tall,
before I knew what all my parts where suppose to do
and realized I could easily live in a rue,
before wrist watches rubbed my thigh
and never took the first reply to my “Why?”