Swinger
John Clare Stokes
The old man cannot tell you
How long he’s been a swinger
Clearly recalling the little towhead
Soaring above ole Sopchoppy
Toes dangling over Flowing well
The chickens below in the yard
Scurry beneath Mr Rudd's barn
Thinking him a marshy hawk
As he swoops in low
Honey bees greet him
On their way to Georges hives
Bearing Tupelo pollen packs
Offering him a sweet taste
But he must make haste
Up from thick Bradwell bay
The ole black bear glares
He dares not swing his way
He and panther want him
In the church house nest
The purple martins are circling
In a frenzy of mosquito catching
Proud of their fledglings
And on he swings determined
Making his way past Boam Bluff
Through Buckhorn to Panacea
To see the source of his landing
The pure white Mashes Sands
Swing, swing my little jumpy
The skies are full of wonder
There shall never be a better
Back yonder
As he lands ever so gracefully
Perfect soft touchdown upon sand
Daddy, watch me do it all over again!
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