Little children come skipping by,
With foot so fleet and sharp of eye,
Laughing, singing, living  they go,
What do little children know?

In the shadows and long in sun,
Worrying nowhere, having fun,
Never telling the  reasons why,
Sometimes little children cry.

See the colors of clothes they wear,
Blues and reds and bruises they bear,
What's the story behind the scenes,
Why  the little  children are mean?

Little children now march the beat,
Stamping wildly down the street,
Carrying banners with empty sayings,
No more little children now playing.

Why do they still wish to play,
What will now adults so say?
Someday they will turn aside,
Make their children want to hide,
But no more, and yet no best,
Little children put to the test.