This Saltimost Gunk your Innocence bade
Hoping your Fresh Field would spare its Effect
Yet this, my Friend, must Tradition be made
For children's giggles their smiles circumspect
Such is Culture. As such your hands take part
To plead their foresights for Fantasy refresh
Shall you permit these Addles of the Heart
If for the ****-Tube their Malice enmesh
Of course, not all. Yet their Tridents stay sharp
Somehow by flickered minds dry-out their Will
Though others, by ditto, pluck-out your Harp
Anything to sate their Loneliness, still.
Tasty, is it not? On your First Day's visit
As the Red Blimp lands on your palms explicit.