When I was young, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t think.
When I was young, I watched my peers. And, yes, I shed big crocodile tears.
When I was young, The rules were harsh. Our drummers deemed The tempo’s march.
The times were thus, When children, good, Refrained to fuss, And understood.
The willful price, Brought on by pride, Resulted in A well-tanned hide.
Restrained and bound. Commanded by: ‘Be seen...not heard. Don’t dare to fly.’
No sass. No guff. No fluttered motion. Suppress. Deny creative notion.
Good girls. Good boys. Good God! Don’t scream! Polite. Restrained. And never mean.
For goodly is As goodly does. And little ears Should never buzz
With adult tales, Or gossip strong. Such treachery Is always wrong.
Then came a day, When verdict rash Wed sentence foul, To lead the clash.
An untrained voice Was heard to howl: “Be gone, Assassins of the soul!”
“Unjust! Dispel this cruel charade! No more I’ll dance In your parade!”
Electric sparks Flashed bright and well, Throughout my carapace: My grown-up shell.
For this good child Cannot remain Unaltered By this new domain.
Survival must now Take the lead In all thoughts, judgments, Plots and deeds.
The mind, the heart, The voice and soul No longer suffer Or shiver cold.
Still...‘Goodly is As goodly does.’ But driven by A hotter blood.