Poetry

The Drummer

The Drummer

He was just a little country boy
No shoes where on his feet
Living in a little house on the edge of a field
Crowded with rows of golden wheat
Just a bit over six years old
No more then three feet tall
Blondest hair and sky blue eyes
There are twelve more in all
He was just a little poor boy
But he didn't know he was poor
Cause he had he's shiny drum
He's momma bought at the country store
He'd dreamed of playing
In a mighty marching band
But that day momma came home
It was more then he could stand
Oh, that little country boy
Ran, with his drum down the lane
Sat by the dirt road playing
RAT A TAT, for anyone that came
So he grew and became quite tall
A new drum replaced the old
But he never played in a band
Had to work, he was always told
His chores were all but done
Much earlier that sunny day
And he ran down the dusty lane
For anyone who passed, he'd play
To his great amazement
Broken men in blue and gold
Marched limping and bleeding
Down the old worn dusty road
His eyes filled with tears
When he saw torn red white and blue
A boy much younger carried it
Oh, what could this poor country boy do?
So he stood up strong along that road
As the broken soldiers passed
And RAT A TAT, he played his drum
To help keep in step to the last
A tap came on his shoulder
He turned an officer to see
Son, I need your drum today
To help us march and keep you free
RAT A TAT RAT A TAT TAT TAT TAT
Young boy marched proudly along
RAT A TAT RAT A TAT TAT TAT TAT
Yes, He's playing his freedom song
In a much mightier marching band
And every mile they marched along
"UNITED THEY WOULD STAND"

Vicki Rosanne Swift
copyright@2001



contributed by Vicki Rosanne Swift [This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. ]