The Institution

By Alizey Khan

Weep and sigh, O my lullaby.

Our children have risen to scorn.

That which we make is now gone when they wake

In the callous cruel beam of the morn.

As long days go by, they forget how to fly

And hear only voices that warn.

The pigs, how they flutter! Yet they leave such a clutter

That poor Mother Hubbard must shove in her cupboard

The tea kettles rattle as nightingales tattle

On mischievous chickens colluding with kittens

And our children wake early in the hurly-burly

To learn science.

Closed buildings! Closed doors! Closed hearts and closed minds!

Our children cram figures, emotionless figments

Of the imaginations of others.

What gives? Where are their hearts?

Where are their rhythms? What became of their rhymes?

Ah, yes. The institution!

We must hasten, my love, to remind, to awaken

Our younglings, despairing in lieu of true caring.

So, lullaby, let us toil hard at their fetters,

And teach them with whimsy to love all things flimsy.

Let them learn a new tune from a fork and a spoon!

As one by glad one they jump over the moon!