Roses are red
Unless they are black or white with pink tips,
Or some other appealing hue.

If oranges are orange
How come violets are blue?

Ring around the rosy,
Pocket full of wake up,
The things you used to cherish
You’ll find are often made up.
The moon used to be made of cheese,
Or a magical man in space.
Turns out it’s just a big piece of rock.
Those are craters, not a face.

You’ll forget that instead of that wretched alarm clock,
A prince was supposed to wake you.
It’s squealing and screeching,
Reality’s reaching for you,
Stealing what you thought you knew.

That pretty rainbow in the parking lot,
That iridescence ‘neath the car,
Is just some spilled oil
On some dried up bed of tar.
Ha! The truth will ruin you.
You’ll grow up fast,
You’ll hate the news,
You’ll endure a few slaps in the face.
Churning beneath innocence
And wonder,
Your cynicism is fermenting.
Your friends will fight in wars,
Your kisses won’t seal fate,
Ends might not meet,
Beginnings might go stale,
Ashes, ashes at your feet,
We all fall down.

And all the kings horses and all his men too,
Will watch and pick roses and call violets blue.
Laughing ‘cause your moon’s a rock,
And your fairytales are dead.
What happened to wonder,
To miraculous things,
When did your childhood end?