River Cross’t wit Stones.


 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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