In a faraway town, in a silly little story,
lived rosy-cheeked toddler, not destined for glory.
His eyes we bright green, shining like springtime,
with small squishy hands – at least, for the meantime.
The townsfolk were pleasant, with light feather caps
and warm knitted jumpers for winter, perhaps.
They wandered and roamed, living small little lives,
Driving small little cars, with little babies and wives.
Molehills were mountains, with raindrops big as melons
and our story begins, with a sweet girl called Helen.
She was brazen and strong, with a mean furrowed frown
but her heartbeat was loving, and that was known through the town.
The boys swooned and they sighed, tried to harpoon her heart
all but one fell and faltered, and the miller filled the part.
They married and loved, in a cosy little house
where soon came a child, squirming around like a mouse.
They aww’d then they ahh’d, at the light of their hearts,
a little bundle of joy, loved for his laughs, cries and farts.
Barely three weeks had passed, Helen was shocked to see,
her babe had outgrown his clothes, standing ‘nigh three feet three.
Helen sweated and slaved, making bread with her husband,
but his cravings were endless, his clothes always burst-buttoned.
At ninety days young, with a crisp golden beard,
Harold stood tall and proud, though the older kids jeered.
Upwards and onwards, till his head kissed the sky,
Harold never stopped growing, but waved his family goodbye.
He’d eaten the cows, snacked on pigs, chicks and fishes,
but the townspeople hungered, so he left with best wishes.
He wandered and roamed, through the night and the day,
scarcely tired, often frightened, the people kept from his way.
One night he gazed at a church on the mountain
and it made him feel so small and tired all of a sudden.
He lay down his head, and for an hour he slumbered,
growing 13 feet more, as the bells tolled like thunder.