The good old days.
Hula hoops, jacks and balls,
b.b. guns, dolls that crawl;
kittens, puppies, baby hares,
summer days without a care.
Cousin visits, big brother's toys;
cap pistols that make some noise.
An overnight at grand-ma's,
scraped knees from climbing walls;
swings on trees, made of tires,
rows of birds on electric wires.
Trying to sleep on that special Eve,
delicious tingles in pajama sleeves;
for Santa is surely on his way,
and tomorrow will finally be THE DAY.
That's twenty things that I recall,
and if I tried to list them all,
space would surely run short before
I had room to account for eighty more.
So I'll sum this up in one more phrase;
as sure as I live, 'those were the days'.
Poetry by Barbara Carleton
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Written on 2010-09-15 at 18:32
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