When Mikey sits on his window sill,
inhaler in hand, sadness painted on his face
under grey clouds, in dilapidated housing,
older brother Brand lifting weights,
I feel it.

When Data, Mouth, Chunk and Mikey
ride their bikes, past lush greenery,
bickering loudly, but excitedly adventuring
looking at that map and doubloon,
I feel it.

When Chester Cobblepot, skelebones body
is laying in the dirt, with skelebones legs
trapped under a broken booby trap,
and he dreams of riches a whisper to only the dead,
I feel it.

When playing a cursed piano, made of skelebones
that has the most haunting incorrect note,
but also a truly delightful success note,
and Andy is glad she took lessons on a Steinway,
I feel it.

When The Fratellis get their comeuppance,
as do the snobs at the golf course,
and One-Eyed Willy sails to the horizon,
a ghost pirate for all time,
I feel it.

I feel within me a sense of childhood
that is difficult to keep hold of as you grow,
but can always be briefly returned
upon submersing oneself in the olden days.