The boy grew up in a pleasant neighborhood
His parents were proud of him
Such an energetic little boy
Not a one could understand
How he could write with both hands
Such beautiful words
Such small hands
The little boy all the elders knew
Was to become the elder all the little boys knew
A town legend in his own time
The boy grew into his name
He was Jonathan Crane
His father’s father was a kindly fellow
Always bowing to everyone that he met
He died on a spring day
That was the day that Jonathan Crane was born
His mother gave birth
On a hollowed hill
Her blood sank deep within the soil
The birds sang no more
The ants stopped their toil
The day the songs and laughter ceased
Was the day that Jonathan Crane was born
One might recall he was a spirited boy
Always the apple of his teachers’ eyes
The brightest student they had ever had
Was in the mind of Jonathan Crane
He came of age
In possibly his own little way
Such a little boy in such a good man
Was the adult Jonathan Crane
He lived the life of storybooks
The house with white fences and a dog in the yard
Two children picking apples in the back
And a beautiful wife, possibly a high school sweetheart, tending to the
garden
This was the life of the husband and father Jonathan Crane
He grew old
As most men do
Although he did not seem the type
Age was beyond him
This was the wise old Jonathan Crane
His children gone
His wife gone
They left for the garden ages ago
An unliving beast took their lives
With the sound of a roar
This was the life of the withered Jonathan Crane
He died on a spring morn
Much like his father’s father before him
The wind rustled through the trees
The flowers bloomed
The birds sang
The ants toiled
This heralded the end of Jonathan Crane.

 
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