I unearthed this poem from my archives, written when I was six. While I know it may seem like nonsense, it represents my early attempts to express the words and thoughts that were slowly filling my mind.
One, two, three, four,
Open and close that door—what’s in store?
Five, six, seven,
All’s tickety-boo; it feels like heaven.
Eight, nine, ten,
Hand us that pen—let’s have a go again.
Eleven, twelve,
In this jolly game, our spirits resolve.
A stroll in the park with the sun on our face,
Chasing the ducks at a leisurely pace.
A picnic on the grass with a cuppa in hand,
Life’s little pleasures—oh, isn’t it grand?
Words tumble out from the noggin, you see,
Though it might seem daft, we’re still chuffed, you and me.
This may feel bonkers, a right old lark,
But in this madness, we’ll leave our mark.
***
© Copyright: Антон Максимов 2, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №224120800914
Свидетельство о публикации №224120800914
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