An ode to Class X-D
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
What is a boy?
Note-savour each and every word.
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights and colours, but all boys have the same creed. To enjoy every second of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere-on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and heaven protects them. A boy is truth with dirt on its face, beauty with a cut on its figure, wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite-he has an appetite of a horse, the disposition of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel strap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, and when he makes something he has 5 thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice-cream, knives, saws, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs and breezes. Nobody else can cram onto one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret comportment.
A boy is a magical creature-you can lock him out of your work shop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up-he is your captor, your jailor, your boss, and your master-a freckled face, pint sized, cat chasing bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with shattered pieces of your hopes and dream, he can mend them like new with two magic words-‘Hi dad.’
Ps: its from a friend’s grandpa’s book. I thought tom sawyer, huck finn, swami when I read it.
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights and colours, but all boys have the same creed. To enjoy every second of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere-on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and heaven protects them. A boy is truth with dirt on its face, beauty with a cut on its figure, wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite-he has an appetite of a horse, the disposition of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel strap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, and when he makes something he has 5 thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice-cream, knives, saws, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs and breezes. Nobody else can cram onto one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret comportment.
A boy is a magical creature-you can lock him out of your work shop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up-he is your captor, your jailor, your boss, and your master-a freckled face, pint sized, cat chasing bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with shattered pieces of your hopes and dream, he can mend them like new with two magic words-‘Hi dad.’
Ps: its from a friend’s grandpa’s book. I thought tom sawyer, huck finn, swami when I read it.
:: posted by Aarushi, Tuesday, March 28, 2006
2 Comments:
why are u treating boys as objects??? ..."boys are FOUND everywhere"..!
sorry to offend u.
read the ps.
i didn't write the whole thing.
it's by a dude called alan back who is dead.
read the ps.
i didn't write the whole thing.
it's by a dude called alan back who is dead.