What ever it takes to fight in flight,
We learn the way to do it,
Even if we must go the extra mile and fight,
By getting, A-Round-2-It.
Tyke With a Trike
By Arley Steinhour 052511
Age of Two, almost Three,
A Trike belonged to me,
Salvage purchased, meaning free,
King of sidewalk, that I'd be.
I couldn't ride it, much that fall,
Front wheel too big for me,
After winter, and growing tall,
I'd be riding tall and Free.
Seat was loose, and front wheel bent,
A touch of paint, great need,
Grandpa's shop is where it went,
By Spring, it'd be new, in deed.
I tried to ride for about a week,
But winter was setting in,
Weather getting colder,
Motivation was very meek.
I think I've mentioned this before,
But December Seven came along,
War was on, and Peace turned off,
Time was needed to even the score.
That winter was a whirling kind,
Army Air-base came to town,
Grandpa started building homes,
So Soldier families could unwind.
Spring approached, Winter passed
Life changing drastically,
My Trike got moved around, but,
The War I'd win, if it was red, and fast.
Somehow, my Grandpa got it repaired,
Painted Red, and looking strong,
Snow, all gone, warmth coming on,
After a bit, with neighbor kids, I shared.
War shortages, rationed much.
Gas, and things like food,
I packed a little extra weight,
Trike burdened by my heavy touch.
Flying down the hill, one day,
The front wheel gave up the ghost,
Looked almost like a figure eight,
Trike lost the war, to stay.
The call was out for scrap and stuff,
To make planes and bombs and such,
Grandpa helped me haul it away,
And place it softly in pile, not rough.
I hadn't owned, my Trike that long,
But I rode hard every mile,
Somewhere, over there, I know,
As it fell to earth, it sang my victory song.