Poetry / The Whiffy Waif

In the days the grass was thick,
And air of moss rang croaker peeps,
My child-imp, I heard a murmer:
The richest star, and me asunder.
Holding tongue we squawked a bit,
With flapping flips and queasy turners,
Until we bonked and thud eachother,
Tumbled down and hurt the other.

Then I saw you raise a smile,
And our laughter rang a mile.
Now we speak in adult language,
‘Cept on days when I still listen;
When the whiffy waif wafts right,
I listen and I hear a murmer:
The richest star I’ve fallen under.

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