Granny kept next to the socksSome old wrinkles in a boxAnd whenever her mood was foul,She'd put them on to help her scowl. Her grandson, the unruly clot,Found the wrinkles, stole the lot,Stuck them neatly to his browAnd got old that instant – WOW! Now granny's a young girl once more,The kid's a sight fit to deplore:He's pulled his teeth out with the pliersAnd calls all story-tellers "liars." from Around the Weenfinite Starting from Nothing Definite, Ion Creangă, 1973
by Marin Sorescu (1931-1996)
