Thursday, December 11, 2008

The last American poet

is a three-year-old named Max.

Overheard today in the lobby: the greatest holiday song I've ever heard, delivered in crystal-clear boy-alto. It goes a little like a-this:

I had a little dreidl
I made it out of snow
I hammered it together
And stuck it in the oven

Bravo, Max. Bravissimo.

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