I came up with this title a while back as a (completely fake) working title for the novel I'm writing. Today, while reading some Shel Silverstein to my son, I decided it needed to be a poem instead.
It was what they always did.
Rupert was a special kid,
And his parents, it seemed, were a touch more odd.
He would throw the windows wide,
And soon he would launch outside,
Often hurled by his mom, or sometimes his dad.
Every morning he'd be flung
'Fore the first school bell had rung.
Most folks said it was the strangest thing they'd seen.
But they really should have stopped
'Cause that last time he but dropped
(For they had just moved from floor one to thirteen).