They give you a desk with a lid, mother.
They let you keep your book.
My desk is next to the window.
I can see the trees.
But you mustn't look out the window
at light on the leaves.
You must look at the book.
A nice-smelling, shiny book, mother,
With words in it, and pictures.
I mostly like the pictures,
some of them animals and birds.
But you mustn't look at the pictures.
You don't ever read the pictures.
You read the words!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem