(99% of editors become editors because their writing deteriorates as their 'idea' of what's worth publishing turns them into David Mamet cliches with the last word. Why their closest friends and peers are afraid to tell them the truth Is why great writers have no hair.) On my first loveless birthday My parents gave to me A basket up the river for free On my second welfare birthday My parents moved around From a squat to a flat downtown On my third toy less birthday My parents bought for me a Wheel-less car from a Salvation-less army On my fourth no heat Birthday My parents thought it smart That I should pan handle as an art On my fifth pitch black birthday My parents offered me A best friend I never got to see On my sixth candle-less birthday My parents surprised me with A used wedding cake lacking width On my seventh unimmunized birthday My parents, broken down Left me at a Lion's club lost & found On my eighth wordless birthday My parents let me say "Are you motherfuckers going to sleep all day?" On my ninth full time birthday My parents let me sign A time card before the unemployment line On my tenth dehydrated birthday My parents got in a fight Because, their whiskey bottle was gettin' light On my eleventh wish-less birthday My parents let me know How far a five-dollar whore would really go On my twelfth pet-less birthday My parents broke the bank Buying me a fish that wouldn't swim, it only sank On my thirteenth luckless birthday My parents dumpster dove for me An attached rabbit's foot soaked in its pee On my fourteenth peach fuzzed birthday My parents traded me in for A legless gypsy to knob dust their floor On my fifteenth model-less birthday My parents took me too A park where we could all huff glue On my sixteenth car-less birthday My parent's arranged For me to meet the criminally deranged On my seventeenth sexless birthday My parents stripped me down To delouse my colonized pubic mound On my eighteenth, I'm free, birthday My parents kicked me out But since we had no house I went roundabout On my nineteenth flattop birthday My parents enlisted me So that I could peel me an education militarily On my twentieth uniformed birthday My parents urged me go Kill Somalians like GI. Joe On my twenty first jail-celled birthday My parents said, "We told you so" And warned me to beware the soapy Afro On my twenty second convicted birthday My parents made me cry By giving me an iffy alibi On my twenty third loneliest birthday My parents finally bought a home But they only gave me a switchblade comb On my twenty fourth drugged birthday My parents gave me an heirloom My uncles' smack rig with a burnt spoon On my twenty fifth alcoholic birthday My parents threw a party Not for me, but for their dealer Marty On my twenty sixth heartless birthday My parents let me in on a score So I could do all the work, while they earned more On my twenty seventh unholiest birthday My parents bought the farm Just another reason to stick needles in my arm On my twenty eighth detoxing birthday With my parents a year in the ground I adopted the ugliest mutt in the city’s pound On my twenty ninth wizened birthday A day not unlike this one I feel better shoulder chipped, than with none. Dedicated to anyone with the gall to allow opinion to turn fact because, "they don't get it." Get this... Editors 'edit' not talk about 'editing'.