Children

CHILDREN Children are the blank sheets of paper in a new-bought writing book And each page is clean and pure white, untrammeled, Waiting for ideas to be created The pages are the future Not just theirs but yours and mine, for if The children are raised imperfectly What sort of world is it to be? All their ideas are implanted by you and me So if those ideas produce great results then we have done a reasonable job; But if their ideas should prove unworthy And lead to a worsening of life for one or for many Then eternal regret will echo round the walls of heaven And the angels will yell for the blood of us perpetrators of such damned falsehoods: And we’d better hope for the indulgence and forgiveness of God, for we Cannot hope to ever justify the sullying of perfectly new sheets of bright paper. Better to have a millstone around the neck and jump into a deep pond, As was said by a guy a lot smarter and purer white than me. And He wrote the book on the subject. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest "Children"