My Boy
.....has never batted cleanup,
has never once barehanded
..........a ball that's on the fly.
My boy
Doesn't start the lineup--
.....he always goes down lookin', but he doesn't know why.
My boy.
He's a cream-puff hitter,
has never beat the tag with a bent-leg slide.
My boy
only gets free transportation.
He's never whiffed a bomber,
.....never once struck out the side.
But he knows the trembling whinny of the Eastern Owl's Screeching,
can identify Draco on a cool, clear night,
stands over the griddle of his own bubbly pancakes
while the waking rays dance
through the kitchen skylight.
My boy--
he's a real bench-blanket,
the first one to the hotdogs,
the last one off the field.
My boy--
he's a six-o'clock hitter,
the coal out in the diamond where his errors are revealed.
But he can share with you the magic of a morning dove's mourning,
can spot a satellite as it slides across the sky,
snips green chives into farm fresh scramblers,
lifts a tune to heaven that can make the angels sigh.
My boy
builds boxes for the bluebirds,
knows how to locate North by the drinking gourd's bowl.
My boy
runs through the fields and heads for home;
My M.V.P.--this boy of Summer--how he blesses my soul.
He's my boy of summer, and he blesses my soul.
