In the plains of a town;
There rules a mild frown.
His silly cry;
Endeavors every try.
His innocent smile;
Hurts every tile.
He is the father of the mother and the father,
Cause it is he who they bother.
A stone held in his innocence.
Just for fun, he thought,
The stone was to be picked, he ought.
But his aunt was in the row.
She was just wearing a laugh
Who knew that her life would bluff.
But wait, is this a naive murder?
Can this case be explained further?
Oh my! Who is to be blamed?
The stone,a thing not living?
The child, who's come to living?
Or the late aunt, who was just relishing sitting?