Hey daddy-o,

I don’t wanna go / to New York-o . . .
I was whining about this last night (“Where don’t I want to go?” “New York, Daddy”), and Rebekah picked it up and riffed on it until she had composed a song-poem of at least a half hour’s length, yelled at the top of the lungs, a perfect example of Brecht For First-Graders:
I don’t want to go to New York!
It’s so busy there!
The buildings are so tall!
And you can’t find an apartment!
My aunt lives there!
But I don’t need to see her right now!
And there’s nothing to do!
Because it’s so busy there!
(continue tuneless rant . . . )