In ’68 I made a son and now he’s grown to be
An artist and a sculptor and he’s been and sculpted me.
He put me on a pedestal; I thought ‘well, there’s a first’
He whirled me dizzily around — I thought my head would burst…
He worked with lots of sculpture tools and bashed the clay with skill
Bird like, he glanced a thousand times , his mouth pursed like a bill
I gazed out of the window, past other sculpted heads,
Peering from the windowsill; some already dead.
The sculptor crouched and bobbed about – then sliced my jaw right through.
I felt like Monty Python, but the jaw went back with glue.
The head looked stern when finished, but satisfied his eye.
He put it in a plastic bag to stay till it got dry.
One day he’ll cast my head in bronze:
How cool is that – just like The Fonz…