July 27, 2011

It came to me

The other day

When I was walking

Around the way

That as of late

Up to this date

I might have given

Too close a look

At one too many

Kinds of book

That have been written

For little chittlin’.

The words, the meter,

And the rhyme

Will soak your brain

If you spend some time

In a tiny chair

With graying hair

Watching silly pictures

On the page

Play like fools

And not act their age,

All the while,

As they danced and pranced,

You’re certain this book

Is far too advanced

For the baby

That maybe

Is listening to you,

But who might rather have

Something better to do

In a seat that bounces

Or with a dog that pounces,

But still there you sit

At the side of her bed

Attempting to augment

That brain in her head.

But maybe

This baby

Might someday soon

At a time that’s probably

Right after noon

Take a look

At a book,

And this just might be

The fault of me

For reading a lot

To a wee little tot

To help to aid

This child I made.

But maybe, oh baby,

As of late

My reading of Suess

Up to this date,

Coupled with

A lack of sleep,

Has made me keep

Too tight a grip

And made me slip

Way down a hole

Outside my soul,

And now my mind

Works like the kind

That one might find

In Roald Dahl.

You know what I’m talking ‘bout,

Don’t you, y’all?

Too many rhymes

Too many times

Can put the mind

In quite a bind,

And with a sigh

I’ll try to lie

And say that I

Will keep an eye

On this little baby

Who might just maybe

Take a look

At a book

While I cook

In the nook

That serves

As my kitchen.

But I doubt that she’s itchin’,

This baby of mine,

To turn a page

At her young age,

But all the same

Am I to blame

For hoping she knows

More than her own name?

These books will find

A place in your mind,

They’ll sit in there

Down under your hair

And ultimately they’ll come out in the words that you drool and cause you to sound just like a rhyming fool. Personally, the Recent Paterfamilias is proud to state that, to this date, this unlikely fate has yet to happen to him. He thinks not on a whim. His vocab’s not slim. And he is glad to say that the mad Dr. Suess has not made his brain loose, nor have the words of Shel Silverstein caused his wits to grow lean.

His thoughts are his own,

They are his own alone,

And he doesn’t believe that any of those books have affected him in the least.

But oh my…(yawn)…this writing…(sigh)…it has become such a beast.


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