Henry Clay Crawford, age 4, woke me just before 8 this morning and informed me that he had made up a poem. It follows . . .
One, two, three, four
I declare a thumb war.
Five, six, seven, eight
open up the war gate.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
Let’s ring the war bell.
Rather militaristic, but then, some great poems have been. His meter was good enough. His rhymes sufficient.
Good for Henry. Now if I can get him to write the Great American Novel at 5, I can retire.