The Playstation Generation Poem by Mark Pollins
The Playstation Generation
Fields, run to the fields, he asked of them.
It’s hot out there, we don’t want to, they answered.
Hills, climb those hills, he suggested.
It’s hard-going up there, we’ll end up injured.
Books, read books, he pleaded.
You don’t get books with your hamburger and chips, they yawned.
Leave the cities, he cried.
Cities are our home, without them we die, they said - not moving their lips.
giggle giggle...i love this one...they get over it...cant stop laughing
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I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 9:15:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Your magic with words is simply spellbinding....this is an outstanding poem.