The Eight-Squared Ode

Come see how they align, in perfect registry, soon to sacrifice themselves to a child's mediocre artistry;

Remember how each sans color was a perfect match, for every other in the batch; each clothed neatly in unspoiled paper and each tip immaculate with identical taper;

All those floor seats supporting more pedestrian chromic alchemy, while the exotic hues smugly wait above in that heavenly balcony;

Young and scion of one who toiled long coming home weary to the core, I was denied this visual feast and had to make due with only the 24; From no box seats would my colors descend, lest I begged to borrow Azure from a wealthier friend; Years later when grown and no longer poor, I went out and splurged and bought the 64.

Oh how the 64 reflected the breath of our society's reach, such as when MLK got flesh renamed peach. For some reason teachers thought Prussian Blue was not right, so thereafter it changed to permanent midnight. And who can forget ol' Indian red, a victim of misunderstanding that lead to chestnut in its stead;

Long was the anguish that my future wife did suffer from that fateful trip, when at 9 that fall severed each and every brand new tip. Even today that is the part she can recall, far more than the details of skinned knees from the fall;

And yes, today inflation has added 56 more, but in my memories 120 will never match the magic of the 64...