by Elinor

Stretched, a weeping parachute,
A frantic flag, salute, salute
The sailor there, he pulls her hair
And tumbles down, a manic sound,
A wriggling heap upon the ground.

Now stop these games, you’re far too old
As shoes get scuffed and shirts unfold
And in his stare, that mane of hair
Which tumbles round, a serpent’s gold, but up,
They’ve gone, run on and on,
That slap, slap sound of school shoe song.

The colours bright, hard building blocks,
A blushing apple, spotted socks
Are far too loud beneath the skirt,
He pulls them up and oh! that hurt.
That tarmac square and knotted hair
And name tags in sewn underwear.
No losses yet, beware, beware
The startling white a snake skin stare.

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