Be wary of the river, child,
May it look gentle or spent,
Be it shallow or mild.
And the rocks, that you glean,
they may gleam in the sun.
And the stream, it looks pretty,
And risk seems like none.

But there is danger there hidden,
Under moss covered stone's.
And that slender long grass,
Snags tender young bones.
And the mud, as you sink,
It will swallow your shoes.
And squirming might help,
Or might hasten the ooze.

And your friends, they might panic,
And might run for the hills.
And it will only take minutes,
Until you start feeling chills.
As your body grows colder,
And the water, it fills.
And it soaks though your clothing,
While the mud holds you still.

You may not be drowning,
But your body grows weak.
And your temperature plummets,
As your limbs, they grow meek.
When they finally find you,
Among the rocks, and the reeds.
Your lips are a pale blue,
And you've settled, your heeds.

And there, you are laying,
Like a doll. Tossed aside.
And your mother stands screaming,
While your father just cries.
But then there's a tingling,
It's faint, but it's there.
And your eyes, begin blinking,
As you breathe the cold air,

And your parents, they hold you,
As the warmth, it returned.
Wrapped tight in a blanket,
With a lesson well learned.


© James Moynihan