Thirteen
Thirteen’s the strangest, finest age you’ll know.
Your voice will change, while hair begins to grow
In places where it’s never grown before,
And pimples will explode from every pore
As girls who used to bore will turn to goddesses,
And you’ll yearn to explore their bras and bodices.
As awkward and as springy as a colt,
Impossible to live with till you molt,
You’ll never be so low or so high strung,
So out of sorts from simply being young;
You'll never be so wise, or half so sure
Of all the thing that growing up would cure.
Last edited by Ed Shacklee; 12-30-2012 at 08:40 PM.
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