"Don't slam the screen door!"
Bang! Too late for that green door.
Outside, the hot summer evening's calling,
promising eternal youth.
Baseball, tag, hide-and-go-seek.
Racing, jumping, wrestling, falling,
running away from growing up.
Perpetual motion. Our bodies reek
of sweat and joy so pure, one cup
would keep us young forever.
Never gonna go to bed!
Never gonna grow up!
Parents, teachers, too soon will try to sever
the thread to innocence and youth.
Don't look back 'cause they're gaining on us,
waving their brand of universal truth.
Where, when we need him, is Peter Pan?
Growing up is more odoriferous
than we are now. Ugh! Woman! Man!
Don't think. Just sprint across the grass
barefoot; feel it tickle tender feet.
Is that a parent's call? Alas!
But keep on running till exhaustion
fells us, red-faced, in the heat.
"IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO GO TO BED."
"Ten more minutes. Please! Just ten minutes more."
"Get your hide in here!
And don't slam the screen door!"
Bang! Too late for that green door—
and for youth.