The Little Girl Is Gone. Poem by Bryan Sefton

When did that simple toss of her head
Become a come on to the boys?
And when that gangly gawkish look
Become such polish and such poise?
I cannot, cannot help but see
That she who sailed so close to me
Is drifting slowly out to sea

When did that wide eyes innocence
Become so confident and wise?
And that clumsy awkward gait
Become such elegance precise
I cannot, cannot help but sigh
As something I thought we had dies
And are those secrets in her eyes?

I, who bought her pretty things
That made her scream aloud with joy
Now hear the same for some trifling
From this drear drab demented boy
I cannot, cannot help but cry
And send my prayers up to the sky
For all I see as passing by

How can her Mother take such pleasure
In watching her daughter's altered ways?
And when I tell her of my fears
'She's growing' up is all she says
I cannot, cannot help but curse
As all my instincts fear the worst
At this boy with pimples set to burst

His cocky confidence makes me squirm
His insolence odious in extreme
Everything about him makes me burn
He is everything contrary to my dreams
I cannot, cannot help but think
That something teeters on the brink
Or something solid is set to sink

Then my wife in dreamy tones
Makes me worry, then to fuss
By saying, don't the two of them
So remind you, then, of us
I cannot, cannot help but see
That he is the me I used to be
God! Now that really worries me!