Young Bruce's parents were no longer around,
His father a victim of helium madness,
His mother disappeared without nary a sound,
So the maid cared for Bruce, with her few scraps of gladness.

Youth was a failure according to Bruce,
He would much rather die than live stuck as a kid,
His soul a steam engine, his body a mere caboose,
His soul hot baked beans, his body merely the can lid.

When he wished one hot August, his prayers warm as blood,
The bark of a far dog happened right at that second,
A hope in Bruce's mind had started to bud,
He looked in the glass, God had answered when beckoned.

That night was a turbulent sleep for the young boy,
He tossed legs and arms, and turned to and fro,
Dreams of God's perfect and almighty ploy,
Swam out from his head and were beginning to show.

When Bruce woke the next morning, the dog was now near,
Barking outside the window, barking right in his ear,
His bed felt like a matchbox under his back,
The floor sagged like a hammock, the walls were starting to crack.

Bruce looked at his hands and his legs and his feet,
For they seemed the same, it was all else that was smaller,
But still the house shook with his heart's thund'ring beat,
There was no denying, he was a good twelve feet taller.

He tried to see the looking glass, his neck craned with pain,
But decided better not peek, lest he get sucked inside,
He was read this very story again and again,
By his fair mother's breath as she lay with him bedside.