Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
 Said the old man, "I do that, too."
 The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
 "I do that too," laughed the little old man.
 Said the little boy, "I often cry."
 The old man nodded, "So do I."
 "But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
 Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
 And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
 "I know what you mean," said the little old man.

This is the only Shel Silverstein poem I’d read till the one on the

pencil maker appeared on the Minstrels a couple of days ago [Make that a couple of months ago - ed.]. I guess the special thing about this poem is that when I first read it, I was still a child who understood what it felt like when grown-ups didn’t pay attention to me. And it had never really struck me till then that very often the very old are also treated like the very young. It helped me understand an aging grandfather. And ever since then, I’ve tried to pay attention - to both the little boys and the little old men around me.

— Priscilla

Minstrels Links

Shel Silverstein:
Poem #845, Recipe for a Hippopotamus Sandwich
Poem #892, Stupid Pencil Maker