A Winged Naked Baby? . . . Really??

How cute and quaint the concept: a naked baby, bow and arrow bound
To shoot and shunt the shy lot: the awkward social, unable to give sound
The chubby angel's arrow harrows their introverted bliss
And what was intended as head-over-heels quickly becomes foot-in-orifice

How Amor and Mars are mirrored: both slay men, more or less malefic
To gore and gar is grimmer: to waylay spontaneous, forced into specific
The deity's casualties driven from their daily ease
To fawn over the unattainable
Capriciously driven and not restrainable
I become the mythical talking ass

Today in no small way I am convinced: Cupid has upgraded, archaic bow discarded
He's hit the street and packing heat, he's roving for more targets
His caliber becomes mature while he remains postnatal
And if he shoots you in the toe, the wound is still quite fatal
Scar-baby face has given to chase, his clip is full and locked in place
Now RUN you chattel, flee the rattle of Cupid's tommy gun in battle
Your heart he'll steal (with roaring peal) and sputtering you begin to spiel
Of love for strangers, Power Rangers, certain fauna, high-volt tazers
Mayonnaise with breaded shrimp, that TV doctor's affected limp
Dogs of special pedigree and Ramstein's special "filigree"
Of idiosyncratic insanities that bring form to all the you's and me's . . .
That little bastard needs to be stopped . . .
And I have to stop him . . .
I need a bottle of Gerber, a Priest with fervor, holy water, and raw hamburger
Put it all in a heart-shaped box, attached by a rope to heavy rocks
And when the trick falls in the trap, we'll clean up the mess and call it a rap
A fallen angel exorcised, millions saved from demise

An Epitaph: alas, no more star-crossed lovers to give Shakespeare voice;
At last, peace for the secluded heart, the introvert, the unconfident confidant
Who fears the lightning-unpredictability of a storm like love . . . no more.
Here lies the pygmy devil Cupid; "Creation B.C. - The Creation of the Internet"