A concept is the box
around a preposition of what’s true;
A shoe, A cat. Even a trumpet,
(which you’ve never seen),
Can be believed because I say its so,
and believing this is easy,
when you’re only two.
But 15 is a dangerous age,
I say, it’s time to have the ‘talk’;
How boys are worse than cigarettes
and never what they seem.
You nod and lie to make me go,
while truth itself goes tumbling
And settles in the box