I'll read a children's poem.
At least, it comes from a children's story--
Peter Rabbit, which I hadn't read for 20 years until time
came for me to read it for my daughter.
And suddenly, I could approach it very freshly.
And I had I forgotten it.
And as I read, I wrote down some lines.
"Peter Rabbit."
"Mushrooms grew near the tree, nearly black with foliage.
Each footfall was a special touch.
Mother Rabbit wore a carrot-colored jacket
and a broad purple skirt.
She was beyond hopping.
Over her paw, a basket.
Her forearm, umbrella.
'No, no, no,' we're waiting for her to demand.
She looks that way, though kind.
Father, father's in the pie.
It was an accident.
It was a stupid way to die.
Peter knows how to be very naughty.
There is a shimmer about the lettuce, French beans,
radishes, and parsley, of evil, or of humanity.
Peter is a thief.
Peter my hero, I am a thief.
Peter, I am a child.
Peter was most dreadfully frightened, and shed big tears.
Mr. McGregor was upon him with his size huge shoe.
Of course we are going to win.
Lippity, lippity, we wander with puzzled Peter.
But I don't want the story to be over.
They will make us wash the green from our hands and our knees."
I was worried.
There's a line in there--
I am a thief.
There's a woman who thinks I break into her house
to steal her lines.
And I hope she never sees this.
It'll be proof.