The Magician Within

Every child is a magician. They enter a room full of grumpy adults and immediately smiles appear. Quiet becomes noise. Motion escalates. Adults compete to get the tyke's attention.
Infants are totally magical. Without blinking or raising a finger, they can turn a sweet smelling space into a mens locker room. The pungent, colorful mass periodically emitted from their mouth has its own texture and viscosity. Children can make things disappear. A cat, a pet turtle, money left out, and liquor from the cabinet. Socks and underwear vanish under the bed.
Okay, maybe they're evil magicians, but by some trick of light or deft misdirection, they have somehow convinced us that they are worth keeping around. Except the kid next door who plays his drums at all hours. I wish David Blaine would make him vanish.

Children at Play

My words are my children and I am a lazy, permissive parent, allowing them too much playtime. They lose focus, lack gravitas, remain undisciplined.
My neighbor Lucretia seldom lets her words out to play. When she does, it is strictly supervised. She won't allow hers to play with mine, fearing they will be a bad influence. Needless to say, she has a book contract and I do not.
Despite all their running free, I notice some of my words are getting flabby. While Lucretia's words do calisthenics, mine are huffing and puffing on cigarettes. I think she feeds hers illegal supplements, foreign phrases no one can translate.
To keep some semblance of order, I invite my friend Ernie over. He is a more responsible word parent than me. He cracks the whip and they stand at attention. Neither of us has much use for Lucretia. It wouldn't surprise me if more than a few of her words cracked under pressure.
Some of them might even descend into--gasp--song lyrics.