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~Sonnet

For how can suffer, the little children
Our world, as though were never made, for them:
While even young, find happiness seldom,
So often given birth, through just a whim.
Another object, too soon grown tired of;
Endless search, for something to occupy
Our troubling, tiresome minds; but never love:
That humbly given, boring old stand-by;
We'd think being present, should be enough
Demands on our patience, and energy
And if they make us play, we might play rough
Just to teach them a lesson; let them see
They're not the center of our universe-
Who cares, at the end, if our name's their curse?

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