Some measure their riches by the lands that they own,
Others count carefully the blue chips of their stock.
A few will find pleasure in their artist's renown,
Tall buildings please them all, if founded on the rock.
The grampa, far more than in real estate, names riches,
Not by lands, nor by stocks, (art is not where it's at),
No buildings to the sky from blueprints with glitches,
But in grandkids by the gross with baseballs and bat.
Loud, rowdy and rougher they play almost warp speed,
(Sharp elbows, knobby knees with lanky flying legs...
Lethal, are these weapons against foe or good deed)
They'll wrestle and tussle until one, mercy begs.
The jewels of his crown were he king of Princetown,
Are the girls with their curls who sit rapt on his lap,
For fables the grandpa tells, with delight, spellbound,
Sweet angels at bedtime or mid-afternoon nap.
Both boys and girls become the apples of his eye,
Rare treasures whose bounty amazes every day,
No sight in the entire creation would he try
In exchange for the smallest of smiles sent his way.
--Le Goobairre Extrodinarre
copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved