The Box
Once upon a time, in the land of Hushabye,
Round about the wondrous days of yore.
They came across a sort of box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled "Kindly Do Not Touch, It's War."
A decree was issued round about all with a flourish and a shout,
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on the fore,
"Don't fiddle with this box, or break the chains, or pick the locks,
And Please... don't ever play about with war."
Well, the children understood, children happen to be good,
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn't try to pick the locks, or break into that deadly box,
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn't either, Sisters, Aunts, Grannies neither,
'cause they were quiet and sweet and pretty in those wondrous days of
Yore.
Well... very much the same as now, and not the ones to blame somehow,
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did... someone battered in the lid,
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A sort of bouncy bumpy ball,
With flags and all the tears and horror that goes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
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