I was born in the south. I live in the south and will die in the south. This is only a small part of the memories I share.
When I'm flying high in my tree swing, there are no words or things
Only fresh, blowing air 'neath me for "miles."
My old tree swing, God bless it, please, I hear the dinner bell ring
I sleep in the summer breeze and fly for whiles.
She ain't fancy and she ain't new, but my old tree swing will do
Days when the sun is young and the evening is done.
No other toy will compare; no other puzzle has a clue.
I wouldn't trade my old swing--for robber's gold or rays of sun.
Silently, surely, without a word, without a sign, time slowly eases by
I am not taken at once for I love living, swinging in my old tree swing.
Suddenly I'm grown with real life 'fore me and old age comes nigh.
Give me another day, enough time to swing and forget death's bells ring.
. ..just for one more ride in my old tree swing.
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