Down by the grove
where I had once drove,
I would sit under a sycamore
tree.
The wind would blow,
thoughts would flow,
and the bird sung a song for
me.
The sun would burn bright,
shine away the night
until it was time to leave.
Remembering those days
in the hot summer haze,
I would sigh and reprieve.
I rejoiced in those times,
when life had no lines,
and I knew no malcontent.
Missing my naps in the grass,
I can only reminisce through
glass
of the days of a youth well
spent.
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