child poetry

what was it the engines said
i think it just splendid
from floor to ceiling
were it not for that singular smell
on and on
simply speaking
and so it goes
brother, i am fire
she might have known it in the earlier spring
i loathed you
what shall we do now
lo! 'tis a gala night
if the red slayer think he slays
in an old chamber softly lit