Joe's Slate

  The little boy with his tousled, curly locks Revelling in his throne of big and small rocks; Underneath his eternally closed lips, A pair of pearly whites with a little dip. Droops over my entrance His rations, depends upon emotions and the heavens Gawking at the floral parade outside Rules don't apply to him, nor does he abide. A vehement little thing he is Draped only with what used to be a white overall There is no sound from him, not even a guffaw. The so called 'throne' he has made Is his only pride and joy; During downpour and dark He takes shelter with all the creatures of Noah's ark. The brevity of human life He never fails to defy Not a care in the world, not a sacrifice Not worried about his strength or his vice. No one goes near this little boy And he thinks it is better that way His only pride and joy The little brats might splay. This pathetic little boy Guards the street at night Aware of every scream and blight.

  She's been to almost every part of the world Around the world in 80 years This is my prediction, mark my word It's her birthday now, give three cheers A whole lot artistic A little bit sarcastic  Her way of thinking a tad bit ballistic The intention, I believe is sadistic Burying her head inside books And not much of a talker Judging by her looks And not much of a walker A soft spot she holds For all creatures great and small When annoyed, her tongue she lolls Always never ready for a brawl She's been to almost every part of the world Around the world in 80 years This is my prediction, mark my word It's her birthday now, give three cheers