all the little children play in the streets their grubby little faces smile with cherubic grace all the while little worker ants dance double time along invisible threads and get confused when a finger spreads North to East when they should be travelling South How come, little baby you need something in your mouth? Guessing rhymes is a favourite pastime to a literary Genius two stepping to a pop beat that should be waltzed but the grubby children only see the rain running fast down the gutter Their tiny ships made from discarded plastic are ocean liners and their inarticulate shouts whisper into the ether dying a harsh death upon the frost Scattered bits of flotsam are piled up high upon the curb of no longer relevant Wastage to the scavengers but not asked of the grubby faces if they grew out of it