Once upon a time in the land of Brent

There lived a child like Einstein,

Yet he stood only as tall as a mailbox

And had lived no longer than he was tall.

Named Paved Street, Jr.

His mother was from a wealthy family out of Quinn, Barry.

Their fortune was made from their penny loafers.

His poppa was born in Omar, Cornelius

And possessed a fluent gutter vocabulary.

Paved thirsted for what his parents didn't seem to want.

He had to ask:

     Who created God?

     What does the sky look up to?

     Where is the end of the rainbow?

     When will a circle stop?

     Why are there only two sexes?

     How does the world hang in the air?

Mama would say, "Go clarence out your room

And don't harold me with ethan more than I can harry.

Xavier breath!"

Turning to poppa he'd only hear,

"Uriah's set on the farthest light.

You'll never evan kerry your load that way.

You must thomas me to let your mind randall no more!"

They tried to turn him into a rubber ball.

He needed to fly away on his own

So, returning to his father's land, Omar, Cornelius,

Where he'd never been,

He spent time breathing in the air.

At the wise age of eight, he reentered his homeland

And relayed to his waiting parents ways of an intellect.

"So," he finally concluded,

"As you've sean from my warrens,

To be edgar is to join the timothyrichard,

Richard, that is, in thadwick of life."

Mama and poppa nodded eagerly.

"Now you're free, son

And so are we.

We can now watch you grow your own sprouts."

As rhyme and reason met and melted together

And Paved stared at the memories standing before him,

He realized he was no more than an extension.

And he was certain he must name his first child. . .

Paved Street, III.