The Old Barn
By
J. Carl Brooksby
When I see an old barn, my thoughts return home
To the place where I lived ere I started to roam.
I think ever fondly of our barn full of hay,
Where, as youthful children, we would frolic and play.
We’d tie ropes to the rafters; we could climb there with ease,
And pretend we were men on the flying trapeze.
We would fly high and low; we’d swing and we’d sway,
Then, when we got tired, we would fall on the hay.
