Ploppity plop, fibidy poo –
what’s a boy to do?
Climb a hill, take a spill,
or count to twenty-two.

Little frogs and bugs with claws
fit nicely in a pocket
while empty boxes taped together
make a fine little rocket.

Climbing the highest trees,
through itchy poison oak,
or solving mysteries
with a dagger and a cloak!

So many things a boy could do,
so much fun to play.
So live as though the moment’s true,
For there comes another day.

And another.
And another.

Until some day little frogs and bugs with claws
are not fun anymore.

 

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About johnallenrichter

I am an aspiring Poet and adorer of life, a conqueror of nothing. However I am a champion curator of truth and friendship and hold both of those things most dearly to my heart. Welcome to my mind's eye. I hope you will enjoy what you may find and please know that you have a friend here. View all posts by johnallenrichter

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