He was just a child seriously bent

on making the muddiest hole he could possibly invent.

It was a masterpiece of the three-year-old kind,

a work of art all parents should allow.

Buckets of water he furiously filled

and walked breathlessly to his yucky hill,

a single drop he did not want to lose.

His parents should boast of his work.

His chubby hands squished the gray, slimy ooze

and he giggled with delight at this task he did choose.

With glee he patted his mud-streaked cheeks.

He’s never been more wonderful; his parents should say.

Tomorrow he may not play in the mud,

and next year he won’t even think it’s fun.

Down the road, beyond time’s treacherous turn,

his parents will sadly see their son’s childhood is gone.