Monday, January 5, 2015

Rosy Cheeks

To Urchins, to Clean Up your Grime 
with apologies to Robert Herrick
Gather your clothes, Bud, while you may;
  You'd better start complying.
And do it now or there's hell to pay—
  Tonight you'll be a-crying.

Your furious Grampa Kevin, son,
  Is tired from his betting,
And soon the last race will be run,
  And home he'll be a-getting.

His rage, no question, is the worst
  When his nag's a poor performer;
He's hot to vent, and should he burst
  Your hide will soon be warmer.

So clean up toys; I'll hide the wine;
  Let's hope it's not too scary;
Remember, once, you crossed the line;
  Now be forever wary.

by Christopher Scribner
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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