Dale Lloyd

Little red wagons, scooters, and trikes,
Freckled-faced boys and two-wheeler bikes.
Blue jeans with patches, a rip, maybe two,
Runners worn thin, with soles breaking through.

Camped by the river, a fish on the line—
Tugging and pulling, his luck’s doing fine.
Where are the girls? He doesn’t care;
Silly creatures with long silky hair.

“I’ll never get married!” the little lad boasts,
“One of the gang—that matters the most!”
Then comes the car, the job, and the rest—
Can you believe it? A tie and a vest!

And wonder of wonders, there on his arm,
A Princess so lovely, with all of her charm.                                                                                         Cupid, you rascal, I’ll tip you my hat—
You aimed for my heart, and I’m fine with that.

So, I’m not complaining, my Valentine friend;
I’m happier now than I was then.
Those wagons were good in their time and place—
But they can’t compare with this lady of grace.