They said, “Don’t run,” so I skipped instead,
With jellybeans bouncing over my head.
They said, “Don’t draw on the walls or floor,”
So, I painted a dragon that opened a door.

They said, “Don’t climb on the monkey bars,”
So, I built a ladder to visit the stars.
They said, “Don’t bounce on the bed,”
So, I moon-jumped with a helmet of thread.

They wrote their rules in black and red,
And taped them to my toaster bread.
But rules, you see, are made of rubber
They stretch and squeak and sometimes blubber.

So, if a rule feels much too tight,
Just twist it left or stretch it right.
And if it snaps and hurts your hand,
Slingshot it back to No-Rule Land.

Where rules are made of bubblegum,
And break themselves just for the fun.