The Boy

it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
This child, what language does it speak?
I would have sworn it was one of my own
A child of Albion! Or at least halfway so
If I knew of the old tongues I could break
The code the strange syllables must form
Not spoken without purpose, but purposed
This child, in erratic fashion, to speak them
A prodigy of sudden turns and mayhem
Not play as we often said when perchance
This child did things strange and irrelevant
And always of disarming anger and tension
With purpose and never at all random
Wise perhaps, but simple and violent
Though smart enough to learn anything at all
Small in stature, by the marks on the wall
Still adorable, and all quite too innocent
This child, even as it does every havoc wreak
Climbing, tearing and with a new tantrum
For every boundary met, but yet in sum;
This child, what language does it speak?

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