A rhyming letter by Witold Pilecki to his son Andrzej

Who is this boy? Do you all know him? Who seemed to look so nice, He’s tall and slim and speaks in verses But now, he seems to have it in for butterflies. So what do you know about him – what kind of a boy is he? Once, he used to write letters to me. – Today, he likes to do everything back to front, Instead of writing letters – he’d rather play pranks. He apparently loves the world and all creatures, Keeps pigeons in his soft heart. And then, abruptly plays dirty tricks again – Deprives butterflies of their lives – chasing them around. And then, pretends to be a bard, Once I tried to teach him to write – I sent him paper and so many envelopes… In vain! He prefers to run around the garden with a catapult in his hand To break windows and kill butterflies. Then, trying to make a sculpture – I asked him, “Be so kind and send me a pear”, I gave him the size – to stir in the kind child An instinct. Not a chance: he targeted a small beetle. I’ve sent him a saw – to follow his father’s footsteps, And practise his eye and hand. What did he do? – I don’t know – Perhaps, He scared hens out of their pens – and played with a dove.