Children in my rhymes - nonsense or not!

Children in my rhymes - nonsense or not!

“Children must be taught how to think, not what to think.”,  said Margaret Mead in her famous quote about the cute little persons whom we ever love to love. And Khaled Hosseini once said : “Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors.” 

"I think that the best thing we can do for our children is to allow them to do things for themselves, allow them to be strong, allow them to experience life on their own terms, allow them to take the subway... let them be better people, let them believe more in themselves." -  C. JoyBell C.

This 105th Blog posting of mine is all about children and their deeds or misdeeds. A few poems/rhymes in Bengali  - nonsense or not , funny yet subtle, penned down by me and two photographs of children  taken by me a couple of years ago can be found in this posting. This Blog solicits your comments & criticisms. I conclude this Blog by expressing gratitude to Margaret Mead,  Khaled Hosseini and C. JoyBell C, whose quotes I have used here and to Shel Silverstein for the wonderful poem, with which I wish to conclude this session.

“I cannot go to school today"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.

And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue,
It might be the instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in.

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My toes are cold, my toes are numb,

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There's a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is ...
What? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is .............. Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!” 
― Shel Silverstein

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