The little buds, tender and warm,
Bring beauty, life, especially charm.
We see ourselves through teeny eyes
And wonder, will they soon tell lies?
They form a garden, so to speak,
And though they bloom and grow,
It seems so sad that when they burst
The sad way some do go.
Of course, it is not all the whole,
But sprinkles there that make
The garden seem like no good sprouts.
A few is all it takes.
The few, these nestled in the grass,
They rule their lives with rage.
Ev’n though we may not know these ones,
They do affect this age.
What can be done? I think it this –
As we survey this land.
Make sure the children do not lead,
But we guide with loving hands.