I remember when my oldest son was about three,
Almost a man, yet still only just above my knee,
I would sit with him and his kindergarten friends,
Telling them stories with different surprising ends,
One of the stories these young minds loved to hear
Was of Pinocchio, the puppet and Geppetto, the puppeteer,
The carpenter father and his son (made of red cherry tree,)
The children loved this story, (you would too if you were three)
They loved to hear, that with every lie Pinocchio’s nose grew longer,
Extended, and lingering, even stronger,
Yet I never understood – Geppetto’s frame of mind,
He could have gotten rich without being unkind,
If he were smart, he would have Pinocchio always lie
That way he would have had an endless wood supply

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