Barefoot Boy, With a Fishing Pole.
A man I am and near my end.
I have other men to call me friend.
And women round me for the lust
And four leaf clover for the luck.
Beer or buttermilk to drink
And time I have to sit and think.
I have meadows which to mow
And I have crops which to sow.
I have men that call me sir.
I have work to be concerned.
I have obligations piled.
Work to do from mile to mile.
I'd trade it all, to be, you know
A barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.
To rest in the shade by a river bed
Soft grass to lay my youthful head.
Fish and skip stones on waters calm
And sleep out all night -when it's warm.
To unravel natures mystery there
Why the turtle wears a shell?
How the Oriole's nest is hung?
How the frog's croak is sung?
Why the Blue-Bell does not ring?
Why the hornet likes to sting?
My work keeps me shod like a mule
Only in dreams, youthful things I do.
When work here ends, to Heaven I go
To be a barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007
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