WHAT THE CORN SAYS
I shoot in the merry month of May,
When flowers and birdies welcome the day;
My ears I fill in the month of July,
When the bumble bee goes buzzing by.
In August I tremble like a leaf on a tree,
As the gentle breezes blow over me;
In September I fall at the reaper’s call,
In December I reach the ass in his stall.
Robert Greer Age 13