This poem was submitted for Project #15, " Aging, Ascents, & Entropies"
Returned to the village from the hunt
In strode the smiling braves
Trailed by a troop of toddlers;
A host of bare-bottomed babes.
The chief was displeased.
What have you done?
Why have you taken these children?
To rescue them, soldiers will come.
One of the braves spoke, No one will come.
For these children are men.
Who were playing in the magic fountain
When we crept up and discovered them.
They've crawled out of their clothes
And their helmets don't fit;
Their horses they can't climb
And their swords they can't lift.
The old chief picked up one of the lads
To get a closer look at him.
Was the wisdom of age in the child's eyes?
Little Ponce De Leon just grinned.
In strode the smiling braves
Trailed by a troop of toddlers;
A host of bare-bottomed babes.
The chief was displeased.
What have you done?
Why have you taken these children?
To rescue them, soldiers will come.
One of the braves spoke, No one will come.
For these children are men.
Who were playing in the magic fountain
When we crept up and discovered them.
They've crawled out of their clothes
And their helmets don't fit;
Their horses they can't climb
And their swords they can't lift.
The old chief picked up one of the lads
To get a closer look at him.
Was the wisdom of age in the child's eyes?
Little Ponce De Leon just grinned.
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