The little boy rides down the street,
No more than four years old.
And though he smiles warmly up,
His face is pale and cold.
No one knows just who he is,
Or why he stops to grin,
But all the mothers love him, and
They all invite him in.
But the boy has other things to do,
He’s got somewhere to go;
But he won’t tell you where it is,
He’d rather you not know.
He’ll never say another’s name;
He’ll never ever call —
And yet, somehow he seems to laugh
Without a sound at all.
In the old woman’s mind, a memory stirs:
She’s seen him once before.
A little boy, of four years old,
Though he talked a great deal more.
Yes, laughing, did he used to ride,
Yes, laughing, down the street;
His eyes shut tight, feeling the
Ground fly beneath his feet.
But with a roar of engines
And a crash to hurt your ears,
The boy was fallen on the ground,
His mother bent with tears.
But, oh, it was so long ago!
He must be all grown-up —
That is if he survived the crash,
And lived to try his luck.
Of course, this is a different boy,
Cold, and pale, and strange —
No boy was like this in her day.
Oh! How the times have changed.
But no, the woman cannot see
The truth behind the guile.
The hidden, crafty, vengeful thoughts
Concealed beneath the smile.
And off the sidewalk, to the street,
The boy flies without sound,
Though a scream of terror comes
From the mothers gathered round.
One of them leaps after him,
No thought to cars passing by,
And with a crash, and cry of pain,
She collapses, there, to die.
Without a word, the boy rides on;
Never once turns to look back.
Soon, no pale boy is too be seen,
No sound of dreaded clack.
A four-year-old can’t understand
The meaning of life and death.
He only knows his mother forgot him,
And turned around and left.
At first he tried to speak to her,
But she did not bat an eye.
She’d only sit beside the window
And rock herself, and cry.
So beware the boy who never talks —
Next he may come after you.
He wants to be completely sure
That other children get forgotten, too.