I can't believe they kept these, my poems.
I so owe them.
A lot, in fact, though it wasn't fun,
y'know, Farming rocks.
With that, I'm done!
But still, to sell the farm?
What an epic yarn, I thought,
when I first got the mail.
That my foalhood home was up for sale,
up for grabs. Really, thinking back, it wasn't all bad.
I've got not reason to be sad.
From North to South, and back again,
the same thing over, and over,
I thought I'd go insane!
Heh. That'd be lame.
It's funny, really,
that I'd shed tears - it's no big dealie
since mom and dad are getting old
it's 'bout darn time the farm was sold.
I heard the buyer's a youngish-lad.
I've got no reason to be sad.
My sisters and me would always visit,
once a year - though sometimes more than that.
To see mom in her scarf and dad in his hat
smile and beam when we'd show up.
Dad strained his shoulder, trying to pivot.
Even while wheelchair bound, his smile as sweet as syrup,
He asked if his daughters could help their dad.
I spoke first, "I'll do it!"
Since I can't bear to see him sad.
So there I was with nose to ground,
my rock piling skills were quickly found,
My dad was loud, "I'm so proud!"
So happy, so glad.
I've got no reason to be sad.
An hours' work was all it took
dust in our manes, us sisters shook,
then found our dad back in his bed,
with mom at his side, a tear was shed,
as he told his jokes, his puns, and stories,
about how us Pies first got our quarries.
Then he turned to us, our wonderful dad,
and said "It's thanks to you girls, that I've never been sad."