I coulda skipped
The whole way
The crick is what I mean.
My stones was flat
The bank so full.
And diff’rent shades so clean.
My chores was done
The hens’ eggs stole.
And fresh hay for the hoss.
And now I play
My fav’rit sport.
Mcdougal’s Crick to cross.
The other boys
At baseball pitch
But they won’t have me there.
Day will come
You bet on it
And I their shortstop rare.
So now I throw
Whate’er I can
Neath springtime fragranr air.
James Whitcomb Riley style. Yep.
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