When Richard got it from his uncle, carefully packed beneath layers of brown
Sealed, though not blinded, from the world outside, all it seemed to be
Was a speck of green, in a big burnt sky, Richard was six.
Richard howled, ”I wanted a toy!”, as he left with his family
They packed their bags, batched them up, buried them in the bus
And all Richard had to do was to hold it in a cup.
Bemused, he was, after they landed, beguiled at the very sight
Of the majestic work of architecture that stood before him
One that he would call his home, his new home
“Why not give this a new home?”, he said, naive little Richard
And so he freed it from the curfew, from the neverending brown
Transplant it into his own dear brown cardboard box
From then on, every day he would wake up, and get off his bed
Where greeting him would be his green pet
He would play with it, grow with it, speak with it, care for it
“This is the best gift you gave me!”, he would say to his uncle
Who got him a money plant because he couldn’t get him a toy.
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