A young man almost three, Sat upon his mothers knee, With crayons in his hand, His masterpiece he planned. Brilliant crayons he did love, And never grew tired of, Colors so amazingly bright, Like a glowing prism light! The evening sunset phasing, Like a red-hot flame blazing, Radiant colors so enhanced, His eager little eyes danced. With excitement so delirious, In a soft voice so serious, Said mother-mother look, As her hand in his he took. Never dropping his gaze, Like a mesmerizing daze, Staring at the splendid hue, God-has crayons too.