There was once a little boy named Harry, who lived in his relatives’ home,
And although he was surrounded by family, little Harry felt quite alone.

He didn’t remember the accident – when his parents crashed their car,
But that was the reason he lived here, his aunt told him, and the cause of that hideous scar.

He’d lived there for as long as he could remember now, the boy that time forgot,
Uncle Vernon said he should be grateful that they hadn’t left Harry to rot.  

Yet gratefulness was an emotion that Harry struggled to feel,
For spending every night in a dingy cupboard had next to no appeal.  

So Harry dreamed of a golden castle, with hundreds of girls and boys,
Where there were lots of things to play with, not just Dudley’s broken toys.

And though Harry knew it was stupid, every night he said his prayers,
That someone would come and take him to that castle, from his cupboard under the stairs.

But when it finally happened, little Harry shook with fear,
As the dark man who had just waved a stick at his aunt reached out and drew him near.

He had no time to dwell on it, for they were soon away,
Harry followed the stern man willingly, because he didn’t much want to stay.

They travelled all night on a steam train, to a castle on a hill,
But the castle was far from golden, and it didn’t quite fit the bill.

Yet the years that were soon to follow were everything Harry could dream of and more,
he even had his own little bedroom, and there were no locks on the door.

And though the castle wasn’t golden, he knew it wasn’t all that bad,
For Harry Potter had something he had always dreamed of: Harry Potter had a dad.