Was summer made for barefoot boys
Or barefoot boys for summer?
While some might question which is right,
Boys never stop to wonder.
The shoes that pinch, that bind, that squeeze,
They gladly cast aside,
Preparing winter-tender soles
To toughen like old hide.
They scale up neighbors' apple trees,
Where rough barks bruise their shins,
And apple-sting their friends below,
Who give back sassy grins.
They leap and dance through tingling spray
From Papa's garden hose,
Till ground becomes a slush of mud
To squish between their toes.
The bell that's on the ice cream truck's
Unmatched by siren's song.
They dare to run on sun-scorched streets
For sweetness on the tongue.
They wade through rocky-bottomed creeks
To climb the tallest trestle;
Then, on the softest new-mown grass,
They tumble, roll, and wrestle.
On Mama's cool linoleum,
They tiptoe in for snacks
And never notice when they leave,
Their dusty footprint tracks.
These little lads are seldom still;
Yet, for entire days,
They'll fish upon a river bank,
Despite sun's fiery rays.
God loves these little barefoot boys,
A product of His graces.
Their charm and innocence, He shows,
Through smiles on dirty faces.
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