Years Pass

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It is so strange to recall that once you were very small.

People called you little kid; laugh at naughty things you did.

Gave you candy, ice cream cones, called you cutie‑pie all day long.

Told you stories, at bed time; read you those silly nursery rhymes.

 

But then it happened, man alive! Not quite so cute when you turned five.

When naughty, they got you straight; beat your tail when you were eight.

No longer the naughty little kid, but a bad little brat for what you did.

And mommy told you all day long, daddy's gonna get you when he gets home.

 

Nine? Everything you did was a sin: you were the devil himself at age ten.

Seems like everything you did was wrong: and, boy, you would get it all day long.

Hounded you; you didn't know why; too confused to laugh; two grown to cry.

Nose snotty; your ears weren't clean, still, it got worse at age fifteen.

​

You were clumsy; your feet too big; confused them with everything you did.

They'd stare with a numb sort of face; and your room, just a total disgrace.

"Clean this thing; look at this sty: I look in there and it makes me cry."

Then, when you'd seen about everything, lo and behold! You turned sixteen.

​

You thought that you would learn to drive. Mother broke out with the hives.

And first date, that high school dance, put your father in a voo doo trance.

But now it has such a different ring, and you wouldn't change a dog‑gone thing.

Its crazy, wonderful, should always be; for its just love to the nth degree.