How I curse at thee
My genetics which hold me at such a height
Looking up at others
As they cheer with delight
For they can see the stage, and I cannot
At the Cure concert

How I loathe thee
My father who hath made me so short
As taller folk high above
They mock and laugh at me
As they release their spit in my general direction
And call it rain

How I abhor thee
My mother who could not spare me another vertebrae
As women look down on me
With disdain and indifference
As they refuse to consider me as a man of their dreams
Because I'm not 6'2"

How I dislike thee
Myself, for not getting a spinal transplant
As the ride attendants refuse me
With a measuring stick
For I cannot meet minimum ride requirements set forth on their sign
Or I will fall out