By Jen Hunt
I write this poem for my son
The “raisin bran and pop-rocks” one
Who jumps around like a Mexican bean
And owns the coolest shirt on the scene
Fighting like a proletarian
Eating like a dessertarian
Made of muscle, brawn and bone
His goal? To see his brother poned
He bites his fingernail tips off
Likes his blankie blue and soft
Prefers to sleep on the floor
Dozes with the faintest snore
Humms the moment his feet hit the floor
Fibs maybe just once or maybe more
He may get love notes from several women
Still with Madden 12 and Grand Tourismo he’s smitten
Effervescent in mood, he’s a portable party
But under the brawn, he’s all tender hearty
When he grows up, who knows where he’ll go
But for now, I just wish he’d play his cello
