The Babyface Conundrum

‘Thanks, bud!’, cheers 'tender: three less my age less more.
The door! Held open! 
'Acts of a man who's boy indeed'

I'm wifed, you prick!
You little stupid bitch!
Twice wifed, in fact:
the first did not quite stick.

So tired of my bullshit,
and I! so tired of hers.
We grew together! Then grew alone.
'My cute lil' boy' no longer.

(To be clear!
my dear sweet reader!
now-wife is most superior.)

My babyface! A baby's face.
This face: it's of a baby.
Respect? What's that? Just for adults.
For you, my son? My sweet small boy?

Show me your ID.

It cannot be! A fake ID!
(The blogger rhymed "ID" "ID")
You are too young! Surely not 30!
Fuck you: I'm old as shit.

My bones, they creak!
My knees, they weak!
I've earned this, dick.
Please pour my drink.

It is not that I do not have
respect for the hard worker.
It's just, you see, my most loved 'scriber,
I'd just like some for me.

I cannot help -- please believe!
that my 'good' jeans have come to this.
Like Brian Johnson, no distinction,
I feast on my blood-boy.

Well, that's not true, I must confess!
Jesus, what a creepy shit.
This life is meant to end, my man:
Take less! Try once to give!

I care not for this baby's face.