Like Topsy
There was a
naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he
For nothing would he do
but scribble poetry—
He took
up his pen,
again + again—
Each thought
was caught,
one after
the other,
on his
folio cover.
Indoors
or out
and never
a doubt,
into his head
ideas did
shout—
Why was
this so?
No-one
did know—
For like Topsy
they just
seemed
to grow!
