Ode to a Swing

Alone sits the old creaky swing,
Creaking, swaying in the wind.
Like the old dollhouse that’s kept downstairs,
The poor swing is forgotten, alone.
And so it plays its mournful tune,
It’s lonely melody
Of creaking, squeaking, swaying, clacking
against the trunk of the old oak tree,
and fears it will never be loved again,
never see those little child legs pumping through the air
never hear the twittering laughter of child’s play
never see the bright smile of the child that used to stay all day
and never leave.
But no, it would never see;
It could never be
the way things used to be.
And so the swing cries it’s mournful, woeful, lonely tune;
Creaking, squeaking, clacking, swaying;
and awaits the day that the wind will come
to blow, whip, take it away,
to provide an escape from this ever-crushing misery.
Oh, that poor, lonely, creaky swing.

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