Stories from the old homestead.
One mile from where the pavement ends
Stands the old homestead where my tale begins.
Lots of stories from that old dirt road that can be told,
Like the place where I learned that I could fly.
A big oak tree where us kids would play,
I remember now with a soulful sigh.
Almost each and every night, around that tree I would zoom and whirl,
No need for wings, but thru the air I could dip and glide,
Flying around my care free world.
The others used to giggle and laugh at me,
But Mom said ‘Ignore them, son, they’re not really that unkind ,
They don’t understand, and they can’t see,
What goes on in your young and wishful mind’.
Around that tree I must have flown a million miles or more,
Only to wake in the morning safely in my bed again,
Listening to my brothers snore.
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