A folded newspaper, with scissors in hand,
a child goes to work,
cutting paper hearts from the jumbled words of Man.

Producing a string, one for me and one for you
and I suppose all our neighbors,
Yes, I am sure they once had one too.

Decades of jumble, for hearts paper thin,
folded them back to the paper lines,
Children will cut them from again.

But why don’t we pull that edge there,
and let’s release our grip,
and smooth out all the creases, and never mind the rips.

And we will let the neighbors, keep the kids employed.
Up above the jumble, and the hell with paper lines.