Give me a stick and a box

Or an old bald tire.

Give me some rocks and a rope,

And a place to make fire.

Give me your junk and I’ll

make worlds to transpire.

I’ll make me a sword and a house,

A swing and stone wall.

I’ll be both pitcher and batter

and catch a fly ball.

I’ll build nations and kingdoms

and then make them fall.

Give me some water and dirt

for some mud to make pies.

Give me glass and the sun

and I’ll mortify flies.

I’ll make them crispy and fried

and watch the smoke rise!

With a small chance to get hurt

and some grime on my clothes,

I’ll teach you as I learn

the secret everyone knows:

This sweat-musty caked on layer of dirt,

is the soil where boyhood grows.

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