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THE OLD SAWDUST PILE
Shant T. Boy
Last evening, I climbed to the brow of a hill,That stood near the site of an old lumber mill. I sat on a rock and meditated awhile, Of the days when we played on the old saw- dust pile. I thought of the days in the sweet olden time, When going barefooted was considered no crime When as urchins devoid of sorrow or guile, We played on the crest of the old sawdust pile. How we wrestled and romped, threw dust in the air Into each others’ faces and into the air, Overflowing with mirth, with a grin and a smile, We plunged each others’ heads in the old sawdust pile. |
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