A poem by my 11-year-old. (Can you tell what we’ve been arguing about around here?)
It’s time to give the boot
to games in which one must shoot.
Do not ask.
Do not beg.
They’ll make your brain a scrambled egg.
Climb a tree.
Paint with blue.
Kiss your dog’s flabby flew.
So here’s a note to all those killers:
Fill your brain with smart-kid fillers!