Giant Sized

I'm eight feet tall when I stand straight.
My growing up just never ceased.
I'm not somebody you should hate.
I'm neither monster nor a beast.

At times it's good to be my size.
I change the bulbs in ceiling lights.
I look giraffes right in their eyes.
I reach high shelves and lift kids' kites.

I eat and eat, but don't get fat,
And see above a crowd or wall.
But still I can't help wishing that
I were no more than six feet tall.

At doorways or a chandelier
Unless I duck, I bang my head.
I frighten tots when I appear.
My feet stick out beyond my bed.

Theater seats are tight for me.
My knees are folded to my chest.
The folks behind me cannot see
And say that I'm an awful pest.

Don't ask me to play basketball.
I'm mocked by fans and referees.
I dunk, but have no skill at all.
And constant jumping hurts my knees.

In showers, I must crouch down low.
My hands and fingers are too thick
To play a harp or piccolo
Or text or do a magic trick.

I can't ride bikes, drive racing cars,
Or row canoes 'cause I don't fit.
Or shuffle cards or strum guitars.
I tried to knit, but had to quit.

To sit on stools or find a store
With clothes and shoes my size is tough.
It's hard to pick things off the floor.
I can't bend over far enough.

So all you shorter girls and guys,
I'm telling you most honestly,
Be happy you are not my size,
And please don't be afraid of me.