Jack, don’t touch that.

Jack, don’t touch that.

But Jack, never one to listen to the rules, put his hand right into the blazing fire. His hand burned right to the bone. His sleeves caught on fire. He jumped and hollered and cried, “I shouldn’t touch that.”

Jack don’t touch that.


Did Jack listen? No. He grabbed the cactus. A hundred and twenty-three needles pierced the soft skin on his palm and the inside of his fingers. He jumped and hollered and cried, “I shouldn’t touch that.”

Jack don’t touch that.

But Jack never one to listen, didn’t put his hand on the soft blanket. He didn’t lie down on the bed and instead fell asleep standing up, refusing to touch that. He learned his lesson.

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