We have no need of calendars At our house any more: Each season romps in with a blast Of playful boyhood lore! When summer sunshine bakes the land, The waves of heat are crest With echoes of blurred Tarzan calls, Thumped upon sun-tanned chests! As autumn's multi-colored leaves Sway to the school-bell's peal -- Reluctantly the little men Store B.B. guns and reel! |