The Inner Child  

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The child sees adventure, say in wearing a yellow mac’ and red galoshes, splashing through muddy puddles, and nipping in & out of the raindrops she dodges. She eyes with wonder a sidling slug, and picks up a twisting earthworm, and  giggles & wriggles with the greatest delight, whist the mean old adults shrink & squirm.

She admires the dripping waving leaves, of a wind-blown weeping willow, touches the damp, soft grassy ground, forlorn, like the saddest tear-soaked pillow. The child’s world so cool and new, fresh as a yellow-buttoned daisy, she one day climbs the loftiest tree, the next, she’s feeling lazy.  Luminous skies aglow with patterns, and the air with the taste of morning dew, and the small inquisitive awakening child, has but a trillion-million things to do.

(Chorus) The inner-child sits in your soul, wishing to come out to play. To build a snowman, pick red mushrooms, oh how she hopes, against all hope, for that exciting day.

But the magical child world, oh how it clouds over grey, as we steadfastly age, not that we know of it, day by day.  Oh to be the child again, to appreciate life’s sacred scent of youth, the gifts from Him, His Nature, how we once shouted about it from the highest roof.

(Chorus) The inner-child sits in your soul, wishing to come out to play. To build a snowman, pick red mushrooms, oh how she hopes, against all hope, for that exciting day.

 

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