On Passing A Wooded Glade

Whenever I pass a wooded glade,

I think of Dad, and the games we used to play.

Seems like yesterday, Mother yelled,

“Damn it, that dog is not your father!”

About this entry

You’re currently reading “On Passing A Wooded Glade,” an entry on shaunT

Published:
March 30, 2008 / 9:41 am
Category:
1356
Tags: