Instead, I was doodling with words. I was thinking of rude parodies of the opening of great poems -- the night before I had been reading a children's version of the Odessy to my son -- and then something else took my fancy and this came out.
I was looking for a way to send this to its subject, but couldn't figure out how. Well, now it is too late, so I thought I would put it here.
Sing muse of the man of many wilds.
And how his Max wrought changes to children's publishing...
To the gnashing of teeth of fools and bettelheims...
Sending the souls of little Jewish boys, big nosed and wicked
in paroxysms of recognition. We were all Vilde Chaya.
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