Unheeding Harold M

The Unheeding Harold M

Why sympathy for a child pained?
By a boot up the arse or a spit in the eye
That child in his every manner untrained
Who drives the sober to sigh and their sanity to slowly die

Unheeding manner is his crime
This little fly that buzzes in our faces
That, even though, is waved away
With instinctive unruly aim his path retraces

Little man Harold M, a rogue by the age of five
In his face alone a story of firm defiance
In his look no trace of a suitable grimace
With all about he shuns a friendly alliance

Impudence he farts unfearingly in our faces
His tool of combat is his unchecked cheek
In his grimy countenance he threatens our world
Irritatingly, in seeking out the meek

No longer do we merely motion Harold H away
With compelling promise offer our friendly palms
Grandly lured he is to a promised land of play
Then educated anew with hefty hands