I just can't figure out how to write about this shit anymore.

You'd think that Grosel would have had some experience as a ten-year-old boy and know that boys of that age playing is neither easy or monastic and certainly that any "laying on of hands" during such play would likely get your ass kicked.

The key line is this one: "the catechism of adventure cards," because it shows how distant he is from both the experience of being ten and the experience of monks. Playing Magic or similar game is as vibrant an experience as any other card game, demanding adaptability and strategy, whereas catechism is simply rote memorization of tract demanding nothing more than unquestioning adherence.

But this poem isn't about boys or monks. It's about turning a casual observation of his: that boy in the hood looks monkish, into the lame twist at the end, which wouldn't necessarily be true of boys or monks. So you get whole stanzas of nebulous monk things and boy things, equating the two in only the most general of ways, to kill time until the ending, whose "boys like girls" attitude cheapens both the experience of being a boy and, even moreso, being a monk. In that respect, it's an ugly little poem.