The Poem Of A Child

Oh… the poem of a child
Is a flea market running wild
We see elephants with kids
Putting their trunks up for bid

And a regimental drum
With pretty Russian dolls
A captain dressing from
Paper ships so white and tall

And a fisherman in rags
Finds captive on his line
Lovely horses made of wood
Tiny slivers oh so fine!

“Shall I give these to the king?”
But the jester with a sigh
Says: “You can’t speak to a king!
It’s the law, don’t ask me why!”

Now the oboe gives the A
Just as one would give the time
And the mouse is with the cat
Shopping for a winter hat

We are sometimes at a loss
For a word that laughs, that cries
When a wolf we come across
Falls asleep before our eyes

But a child when he writes
Won’t know he’s a poet yet
He’s the first to be surprised
By the smiling words he’s met

So when a poet writes
Is he still a child within?
When his words race out of sight
Just like horses in the wind

He’ll chase words of love and hope
Amidst all the market cries
When they sell bubbles made of soap
Filled with pretty butterflies

With his graceful magic hands
Filled with loaded dice and stuff
The magician scams his fans
’Cause he can and that’s enough

In a kiosk on its own
There’s a child selling poems
Underneath the watchful eye
Of an old man standing by

And he’ll sell love letters too
For their words will make us sigh
They’ll say “Stay with me” and “I do”
“Bon voyage” and then “Goodbye”

In his finest writing yet
He’ll make words we won’t forget

Entrez des paroles!

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