soft grumbles

A Child Rhymes

One, two, tie my shoe —
Good shoes are for a chosen few.

Three, four, shut the door —
Trap all blessings, leave them on the floor.

Five, six, pick up sticks —
Whip the voodoo man and fix
Tangled webs of lies and poo-poo mix;
We’re all amazed by his bag of tricks.

Seven, eight, no one’s straight —
It seems we’ll be alone at heaven’s gate.
Judgment Day — I cannot wait;
Greedy politicians took the bait.

Nine, ten, a big fat hen —
Is all I need to show you then:
The bunch we call august men
Are thieves in mud inside their pen.

rolly