Please, mom, don’t make me go
over to play with Henry Thoreau.
I tell you, he’s really not one of my faves.
You can’t call him “Hank,” or even just “Dave.”
Oh no, it’s gotta be Henry David when you call him
for this fact alone, I’d sure like to maul him.
He seems to march to a different drummer,
that’s the principal reason I avoid him all summer.
If you want to play hoops, or ball or marbles,
he says “Bhagavad Gita” or some other garble.
He’s always got his nose in a tome,
that’s why I don’t want to go to his home.
“There’s nothing to do there!”
He’s into nature, hates stuff artificial,
claims candy and sweets are quite superficial.
You’ll never see him eating licorice whips,
no root beer barrel ever touches his lips.
He hangs out with grown-ups called Transcendentalists,
I’d like to pound his smug mug with both fists.
All right, if you insist, you can tell his mother
I’ll meet him at some pond or another
where we’ll sit underneath the sun infernal
while he drones on and on with his lectures eternal;
but it’s a sad fate for any red-blooded boy
to be stuck with a preacher when he wants a toy.