An orchestra of children
Provides a symphony.
The violin of a two-year-old
Sings the plaintive cries,
“Daddy, Daddy!”
The lone flute of a three-year-old
Soars above the din,
A painful wail,
“Mommy, Mommy.”
Then the scratchy oboe
Of perhaps a four-year-old,
Keening for an aunt to be allowed to come
And take him to her home to stay.
Next all the whimpers,
Sobbing, moans
Squalls, and laments
Of trumpets, tubas,
Violas, bass and all the rest
Join the cacophonous clamor
Of such a discordant melody,
Harmonious to the hardened of heart
Who give ear to this orchestra,
Deserving of nothing but the pain
Contained within the symphony
The progeny play,
As less than they.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 