Yes you might be fourty or yet still in your teens
But still my children who carry forth my dreams
We gather here my children, 'tis here we pen the words
That talk of love,  of passion and fairy stories read
But still I read of bitterness among my children here
Read the words of hatred wrote with the vitriolic knib
I weep for you who pen the words, words I cant control
All I ask is that you stop and think, look inside your soul
You may not like the words I write, I might not like those of yours
But at least give understanding and never close the door