Tradition will bow to me if I wish it.
Tradition will shatter if I wish it.
How many stories have there been
Of iconoclast children born to win?

I have a mother’s love when it’s convenient,
My father’s nonthreatening ineffectuality,
Oh, parents by turns firm and lenient,
Suitors defined by their nonentity.

Tradition will fall to me if I desire.
Tradition will creel and cry with fear.
I will feed the waiting chains to the fire.
No hapless fool will call me dear.

I do not need to change.
Not past a few kinder words to Mother.
I do not need to change.
To change is to die smothered.

Tradition is crushed beneath my feet.
I ride on my horse, the air is sweet.
Mother rides with me, my victory complete.
Take in a breath, let the story repeat.