Thursday, March 15, 2012

Alas, Not a Load of Malarkey

This is a Mlarckian.

A Mlarckian lives on mushy moody monster manes.

A Mlarckian eats mainly mandarins, Mars bars, milk, and margaritas like my mom.

A Mlarckian likes munching on human moles and Manchester men.

A Mlarckian made a mountain of marmalade and marzipan.

A Mlarckian molded mount Matterhorn and made my morning.

-- Youngest, March 2012

Youngest and his fellow fourth graders are each charged with creating a book containing different types of poems. His alliterative one calls to mind the Acrostic Eldest wrote when he was in fourth grade.

Both poems are a true testament to the inability of mothers everywhere to trust their children not to divulge too much of what goes on in the home. I liken it to how willing kids are to tell others such fascinating information as the type of underwear worn by their mothers. [I remember being at Target with Youngest and a friend when they were both in kindergarten. Youngest's friend pointed out a huge pair of granny panties as we walked past, saying, "That's what my mom wears!" Damn kids.]

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