Fools, hey!
Look at the kid.
A cliche, you'd say:
A mournful glance,
Cerulean eyes, sarcastic wits,
A show-off. His stance
Is vivid with scratch on the knee.
A messy mop of the blonde
Straw on the head.
And yet
He's cleaner than us
Would ever be set.
With hands
As cold as the moon
And hotter than we'd ever melt.