No Picnic For Buddy Bear

Look at my Buddy Bear. Missing an eye, still has his grin, he has his grandpa’s hair with bare spots on his head and chin. Bud heard my ev’ry prayer. He’s been to ev’ry place I’ve been. For my gramps Bud was named. At church, we three sat side by side; I took him unashamed. The notes we sang were sour; we tried; no music skill we claimed. A bass, Granbuddy sang with pride. One cool night we all slept in Cousin Eddie’s big backyard. The wind grew strong. It swept our tent and blew the fire off guard. We all were fine except... my Buddy's head was somewhat charred. Granbud took my teddy saying Gramma could make repairs. I overheard Eddie say only children play with bears. I was almost ready to sock it to him unawares. I walked away from there and never asked for Bud again. Don’t think I didn’t care. I guess it boiled down to chagrin not wanting folks to stare at big boy with a teddy friend. I’d watched them put my guy in a drawer in their chifferobe. Only once did I spy to take the quickest peek and probe for a loose button eye I’ve carried with me 'round the globe. HM