I think that I shall never know
A child whom I’d rather throw
Into a pot of heated coals
Or off the stage of a punk rock show

I can’t perceive how there could be
A boy as snotty as is he
His face a-twitch, he yelps and squeals
And not a trait of his appeals

To girls sitting adjacently,
His bare feet roam habitually
And contrary to my requesting
Rarely ceaseth his molesting

I now recall that long ago,
I once predicted we’d be foes
But new moons passed whenst he were decent
Most of them not very recent

For now none doth harm frequently
Nor childishly as doth he
And should you glimpse his twitchy semblance,
Surely you would find resemblance
To the critters, ghouls, and gremlins,
Of the coming Hallowed Eve.

For he, The Boy, may think it not,
But I know he’s a little snot,
And all the other tikes and tots
Can see that he’s not worth a lot
So if he hollers let him rot
And let the mother grieve

Afterword: In reality I would also grieve if he rotted. I wish him well. A well distance away from me.

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