There was a time, not long ago
(Say, a hundred years or so)
When children's minds were filled with dreams,
Fantastic pictures, wondrous schemes.
A child would read the printed page
And, in his head, create a stage
Where characters could strut and pose
In any masks or any clothes.
An author would create a scene...
A ghost could groan, a prince could preen.....
And then the brain could fill the spaces
With private pathways, fancied faces.
Each picture was a private pleasure
In a world of dream and leisure.
A page could be read and read again,
A purely personal refrain.
Spurred on by his imagination
A child could fashion his own creation!
He'd become an 'author', by himself,
Just from a book down from the shelf!
But along came Disney and his crew
Bright and jazzy, wildly new
To tell the children how things look
When pictured in a story book.
"Snow White looks this way! Here's the Queen'
Forget your old internal scene.
Old Walt knows best what's good for you;
His is the primary 'childish' view'."
Since then, of course, we have been cursed
With an insatiable thirst
For the digitally made!
Mere drawings just don't make the grade.
Make the creatures more grotesque!
To hell with the merely picturesque!
Blazing eyes and gaping jaws;
Monsters with truly hideous flaws!
Nightmare creatures haunt the nights
Of little children, who, by rights,
Should just drift off with private dreams,
Not ghastly faces, piercing screams.
Old Walt Disney! What right had he
To invade our children's privacy?
It worked for me here: