My Kid Machine
They draw me punk, they draw me clean, they draw me messy, my kid machine.
I have a cult, they are my regular beings, they come in droves, pretending mean.
They get referred more times than all the rest by a variety of teachers, galore.
They dance and shout, and giggle and twirl as they come into my counseling door.
They have a lot to say, but they promptly clam up.
Afraid I might share what they dare to bring up.
We sit in silence for a tiny bit. I ask them what they want to do.
Playing on my computer, is the first thing brought up by most of my crew.
That is out, I remind them, gladly.
You got here acting rather badly.
Deep inside is some serious sadly,
So I make them play, and rather madly.
The more outrageous we get in my room.
The closer to the truth we zoom.
They forget where they are, forget to clam up.
Spilling their guts, telling me what is up.
Do not tell the adults, they caution me in a wild way.
Forgetting I am one, as we continue to play.
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