How Old Are You


How old are you, the child asked me,
Old as dirt, really I'm just ninety-three.
The child smiled and said I'm also three,
I had spoken so softly, he only heard the three.

We walked and talked about three year old stuff,
How we hated food, which we called green stuff,
And that math taught in school must be tough,
Also we didn't like playing with kids that are rough.

We stopped to play with friends that were pretend,
When we argued, our discord we'd quickly mend.
Also we loved to spit, even against the wind,
What a wonderful feeling, just having a friend.

Singing songs with words that are mostly made-up,
Then we would tell stories, so funny, we'd crack-up.
And discuss what we'd be whenever we grow-up,
Even though I'm ninety-three, the child had no hang-up.

Whether three or ninety-three we're all kids at heart,
Even though it's easy enough to tell us each apart.
It doesn't matter, if old or young, dull or even smart,
It's not the outside, that matters, but what's in the heart.

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