Puff, the Magic Dragon
Leonard Lipton & Peter Yarrow
This is a very clever take on childhood imagination.
Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff.
Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name.
Oh, Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.
A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giants' rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.
His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave,
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave.
Oh, Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.
Screwball
This is Dion on the morning of his fifth birthday. I love going over the photos of him, but what can I say about a five year old child? He was funny, life was interesting to him. He liked it when I sang, and I liked it when he sang along with me. He was what I lived for. It’s painful, here alone at the computer, to write about him. If you have ever had a five year old child, you pretty much know the story.
I’ll take you back to when I was about five years old.
Dad loved cars and motorcycles. In the early to mid-fifties, he bought a couple of boxes of motorcycle parts that were army surplus and were a combination of 1934 and 1935 models of Harley-Davidson. I recall him working on it for a long time – months, perhaps. He did get it running, and painted it orange and black. He often took us for a bit of a ride around the neighbourhood, seated on the tank in front of him. Dad never wore a helmet until we came to Australia, where they were compulsory.
One day when I was about five or so, he decided I could ride pillion. I sat cross-legged behind him (my feet wouldn’t reach the pegs if I sat astride) and hung on to his belt. He took me to his mother’s house, a couple of miles away.
Dion opening his birthday present
Excited from the ride, I slid off the bike, ran up the porch steps, and knocked on Grammy’s front door. She was surprised to see me, apparently on my own.
“How did you get here?” she asked me.
“On Dad’s motorcycle,” I said, pointing to where Dad was settling the bike on its stand.
“You can come in, but your father can’t. He’s a screwball.”
And she hauled me into the house, closing the door on my father.
