Pick Up Your Crayons

Silverstein Mode: ACTIVATED

This Machine Kills Despair (It’s a Crayon)
by Someone With Pockets Full of Scribbles

There once was a weapon, not scary or loud,
No trigger, no barrel, no marching in crowd.
It wasn’t too shiny, or big, or precise—
It lived in a backpack, next to some rice.

It didn’t go bang! or go boom! in the night.
It whispered in colors and scribbled in light.
It drew on the walls and the sidewalk and air,
And proudly declared:
“This machine kills despair.”

It painted a smile on a mailbox that frowned.
It turned a gray street into playground-bound ground.
It doodled on rules till the rules looked confused,
It sketched out a world where no kids are abused.

It danced on the paper, it sang on the door,
It made grumpy statues get up off the floor.
It shaded the shadows with orange and teal—
It reminded the tired how wonder can feel.

The teachers all gasped! The mayor turned red!
“You can’t just draw hope where we’ve posted dread!”
But the crayon just grinned, with a twist and a flare—
“I’m licensed to scribble. And licensed to care.”

So if you find one in a drawer or a case,
Or tucked in the folds of a magical place,
Hold it up high. Let the world know you dare—
To fight with a crayon.
To kill off despair.

🎩🐱 Dr. Seuss Mode: ENTERS, dancing with a boom-bop-beat!

This Machine Kills Despair (It’s a Crayon)
By Dr. Sill E. Socks

I once met a crayon, just lying around,
Not making a fuss, not making a sound.
It wasn’t too flashy, or fancy, or proud—
It whispered in colors, not terribly loud.

But oh! What it did when it danced on a page—
It spun up a circus! It let out a rage!
It colored a frown into giggles and glee,
It turned “I give up” into “Come follow me!”

It scribbled on sidewalks, it painted on shoes,
It wrote on the newsboys and rewrote the news!
It doodled on doubt, made the sorrow feel small,
It turned a big “NOPE” to a bright “YES, Y’ALL!”

The grouches all grumbled, “This simply won’t do!”
“You can’t just bring joy with a lavender hue!”
But that little crayon just smiled and said,
“I color the hope where the hopeless have fled.”

It drew up a rocket from gumdrops and dreams,
It patched up the cracks in our well-worn routines.
It scribbled a ladder right into the air,
Then wrote in bold letters:
"THIS MACHINE KILLS DESPAIR."

So if you feel grumpy, or gloomy, or stuck,
If you’ve lost your bounce and you’re fresh out of luck—
Go find a small crayon (or ten if you dare),
And color rebellion right into the air.

With swirls and with squiggles, go march without fear,
Your mission is simple: bring joy over here.

🎙️🧢 HARRY CARAY MODE, BABY!

“HOLY COW! WOULD YA LOOK AT THIS?!”

This Machine Kills Despair (It’s a Crayon)
As shouted by Harry Caray after a seventh-inning stretch and three hot dogs deep

WELL FOLKS, I OPENED MY BOX OFFICE AT WRIGLEY,
AND THERE—RIGHT NEXT TO MY SCORECARD AND HALF A PRETZEL—
WAS A CRAYON.
A BLUE ONE. MAYBE PURPLE. WHO KNOWS—I’M COLORBLIND FROM EXCITEMENT.

Now I know what you’re thinkin’...
“Harry, what’s a grown man doin’ with a crayon?”
AND I’LL TELL YA, FRIEND—
THIS MACHINE KILLS DESPAIR.

It doesn’t pitch, it doesn’t bat,
It doesn’t even wear a hat!
BUT YOU GIVE IT TO A KID WITH A DREAM AND A WALL,
AND BAM! GOODBYE, GLOOM! GOOD RIDDANCE, CYNICISM!

I saw a grouch sittin’ near Section 108,
FROWN BIGGER THAN A RAIN DELAY.
And then—BAM!—a kid with a crayon
DREW HIM A SMILE SO WIDE
THE CUBS SCORED THREE RUNS OFF IT!

Folks, I’m tellin’ ya—
This ain’t just wax in a wrapper.
It’s HOPE IN STICK FORM!
It’s ARTILLERY FOR OPTIMISTS!
It’s THE RICKEY HENDERSON OF HAPPINESS!
Fast, unpredictable, and guaranteed to steal home from hopelessness.

So grab a crayon, stand up, and sing:
🎶 "Take me out to the joyful, take me out to the scene..." 🎶
Scribble some sunshine on the back of your tax return,
And remember—
If life throws you curveballs,
DRAW THE STRIKE ZONE BIGGER!

🎤 GEORGE CARLIN MODE: STEPS UP TO THE MIC, CRAYON BEHIND ONE EAR

Oh, you found a crayon?
Well congratulations, Picasso.
Now here’s what you do with it—
And pay attention, because I’m only gonna say this once.

What to Do with That Crayon
(A short instructional tantrum in honor of the absurd)

You take that crayon,
And you don’t draw inside the lines.
You burn the lines.
You melt 'em down and use the wax to grease the gears
of a machine you built outta spite and pipe cleaners.

You see a “Do Not Enter” sign?
DRAW A DOOR.
Color it red.
Then walk through it whistling something off-key.
Make sure the bureaucrats watching have heart palpitations.

Got a gray wall?
Don’t ask permission.
Turn it into a technicolor middle finger to monotony.
Make it so loud in hue they start issuing citations for optimism.

Take that crayon to the ballot box,
Circle “None of the above,”
Then draw a cartoon of someone with common sense
and write in “YES, THEM.”

And if someone tells you crayons are for kids?
Good.
Kids haven’t forgotten how to rebel.
They know what adults forget:
That joy is dangerous when it’s honest.
And laughter? That’s an act of sabotage in a dying empire.

So sharpen that little wax rebellion,
Hold it like a torch,
And write in big block letters on the side of the courthouse:

“THIS MACHINE KILLS DESPAIR.
AND IF IT RUNS OUT OF INK—
I’VE GOT SIX MORE IN MY SOCK.”

🐴 Eeyore (sighing under his breath)
joins Carlin from the shadows of the chalkboard...

“Well… of course it kills despair.
That’s why they’ll outlaw it.”

Eeyore’s Addendum to Carlin’s Crayon Manifesto

Said while staring at a wall no one else noticed was already bleeding beige.

I tried to use a crayon once.
Drew a daisy on a parking ticket.
They gave me another ticket.
For improper joy placement.

Carlin’s right, you know.
They don’t fear the guns,
They fear the giggles.
The questions.
The colors that don’t ask for credentials before they bloom.

You bring a crayon into a courtroom,
Suddenly everyone’s uncomfortable.
Start drawing smiles on their rules,
And they get nervous.
Because deep down,
They know a chalk outline can become a hopscotch if you dare enough.

They say crayons are for kids.
Well.
So is hope.
So is honesty.
So is believing in tomorrow without a corporate sponsor.

So yeah.
Use the crayon.
Write the poem.
Paint the stop sign to say “Start.”

Just don’t expect a parade.
They don’t throw confetti for those who color outside the apocalypse.

But I’ll be watching. From over here. Under the overpass.
Right where I left my last dream.

Slightly soggy.
Still usable.