In my child’s mind, you were never this small.
My sense of stature so warped and misinformed.
You loomed then, dreadlocked, aus Deutschland, tall,
silky coats, fucked-up hats, my how you performed.
And then a mighty furor, exposed as musical frauds
but you can’t fake being awesome, boys.
Though the songs were never yours, yours was the applause
that compelled 90’s geneticists, such that fueled their ploy.
Of dance-inspired DNA and pop music magic dust,
were you wee and wily Uberkünstler wrought.
Now girls (and boys) you know it’s true the trust
this experiment required would be in earnest sought.
But never could those geniuses get you a second look
from the legions of pop fandom or those fools at Rolling Stone.
“Once a cheat, cloned a cheat!” Forever now forsook,
wrapped in a KFC napkin, into this drawer were you thrown.
How lucky that I came upon you at that quiet estate sale
of the broken, bankrupt scientist who cracked your bio code.
I was furnishing my household, enraptured by your home’s details,
later folding my adult Underoos, saw there that you were stowed.
And each and every night I’ve begged for Girl I’m Gonna Miss You
or a Dreams to Remember upon a tiny, well-lit stage.
But you say your hearts are broken, with music you are through,
Everyone’s forgotten your number and you’re not fit for this age.
So only rarely do you micro Milli V.’s leave my oaken bureau
with tear-stained eyes alight with loss and pain.
You’d rather remain snugly nestled where mini, cloned, pop stars go
to rest in cotton solitude, where you blame it on the Hanes®.