tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21078541.post-77087566441518997132008-03-26T12:51:00.000-07:002008-03-26T12:53:04.493-07:00<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_v23A0zY6oh4/R-qplgIn2cI/AAAAAAAAAPM/NR35QMeflO4/s1600-h/hands.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_v23A0zY6oh4/R-qplgIn2cI/AAAAAAAAAPM/NR35QMeflO4/s320/hands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182140782989531586" /></a><br />Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."<br />Said the old man, "I do that, too."<br />The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."<br />"I do that too," laughed the little old man.<br />Said the little boy, "I often cry."<br />The old man nodded, "So do I."<br />"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems<br />Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."<br />And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.<br />"I know what you mean," said the little old man.<br /><br /> -- Shel SilversteinAlex Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02109059018269508607noreply@blogger.com