the child spoke,
limited to phrases, a dearth
of famine producing his needs
in mass production.

he stared at the roof,
observing the ladder
with steps that grew narrower
as one came closer,
"It's a sign of God!,"
exclaimed a relative,
"He is meant to be a ladder-man!"

the child spoke,
limited to phrases, the fourth
of July flashing five dollars
at the sorrowful estate.

his father went to the water,
collecting liquid honey
to feed the child's ample throat.
in his mind he muttered,
"You're a waste of space."
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian