OUR YARD

Joseph Pullman Porter 1893-1980

You ought'er come over to our yard.

Oh boy! But we have fun!

We've got a dandy place to play

An' when our work is done

An' after school, us kids goes out

An' I hangs by my knees

Up in the sour apple tree

Where dad fixed our trapeze.

Up in the tallest branches

Of the sugar maple tree,

We're building us a tree-hut,

With rope ladders, hangin' free,

So we kin pull 'em up inside

When we bomb the enemy

With the poor, old wormy apples

That we swipe from off the tree.

My brother has a basket-ball.

He got it Chris'mas day.

We're gettin' up a really team

An' learnin' how to play.

My dad will be our trainer.

Gee whiz! But he can go.

He once played with the High School.

I'll say he isn't slow!

I don't care much for Sister's games,

Or the things she likes to play,

'Cept when she puts away her dolls

An' comes and play croquet.

An' then we knock the balls about

A-scootin' crost the lawn.

Til sudden like I'm skeert for fear 

I've busted flowers down.

But mother hardly cares a bit,

An' says that boys is boys

An' calls back-yards, child-gardens,

An says her joy of joys

Is to see her babies growin' up

Like weeds in summer time.

Believe me, boys are lucky kids

Who have backyards like mine!

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY DAY

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