Thirds the one with the hairy chest...

Don't you just love children's rhymes?
"Ring around a rosie, we're all going to die!"
Morbid little things that they are.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, not a pretty tale of silver bells and cockle shells, but of thumb screws and torture, guillotines and graveyards.
It is weird though, the things that are taught to children.

The playground never ages.
Take a walk one day, and sit by a school, a park, anything with kids, do your best not to look like a paedophile, and just listen to them play.
Everytime i walk past a group of little kids, they are doing the same little things i've done, singing the same songs ive sung, minor details vary from group to group, but then, they always did. Skipping rhymes, and counting games, they stay the same. The memory of them tugs at my mind, as an overheard tune carries me back through time, and i can almost, nearly... but its out of reach, and by then ive walked on, and its lost to space and distance. But, sometimes, on the edge of sleep...