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You are so childish! The old crone said.
I knew at that second she is daft in her head.
Nothing childish about my inner child.
Trixie is as exuberant as that crustbutt is mild.

We fling ourselves about in a puppy like way.
We’re all about the journey, we just want to play.
We keep in touch with our youth filled with joy.
When we jumped from treehouses, each a tomboy.

I float my feathered boa across the old woman’s lap.
She rolls her eyes, not in a good way. She is an old sap.
Lighten up! I tell her; let loose. Let us dance!
She is as tightly tucked in as the south part of France.

So Trixie, my inner child and I do all of the work.
We hop, skip, jump and show her how to merrily jerk.
She catches on quickly and laughs herself silly.
Not childish at all, she says to my Uncle Billy.

He jumps from the chair, landing on the TV.
Going way too far, as most of us clearly see.
But his inner child was crazy, clearly insane.
He breaks that TV set from cabinet to frame.

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