Saturday, May 21, 2011

I’m not your papa

Don’t call my name, don’t call my name, I’m not your papa.

You're my Honeybunch, Sugarplum, Pumpy-umpy-umpkin. You're my Sweetie Pie. You're my Cuppycake, Gumdrop, Snoogums-Boogums, You're the Apple of my Eye

These are the terms of sweet nothings, the soft soap that brushes away the prickliness in life. But it’s also the endearment that set off an engagement in our statement, oh it perfectly rhymes.
You used to call me baby, just like a kid with a dirty nappy. Darling is uberly mushy that it makes you gag for I’m not the blue-eyed boy that you crave for. Sweetheart is no longer applicable because yours is already archaic and tangy. Babe has the context for you of the animal-in-the-city, and honey as you said is only for the bear with no undies. Love reminds you of your dad and his mistress making love in the attic. So you just decided to call me baby, again just like an aging man with a soiled nappy. Then one night, I was able to get in inside your closet and I found out that it was papa that you used to call your exes. I questioned myself on why I am just your baby? The absurd comparison brought about a serious conclusion; I am a baby just like an old man with a dirty nappy and your exes were the papa with great authority. They’re papa, papables that you couldn’t disagree. They’re papa, papables that you called yummy. Oh, I forgot isn’t papa because you had the theatrical production of mama and papa’s mission impossible? Pathetic me, I am the product of the composition, a baby with a dirty nappy out of the mama and papa awful love story.

So from now on, stick with baby and don’t ever try calling me papa.

 n.b. I hate papa just like the catsup that is made from banana, I prefer that is made from tomato, kahit bolero, masarap sa puso.