On Sundays Mom an Dad an I
An Sis an Tom an Joad
Git in the car an rattle off
To hunt another road.
An Gee, the creeks an trees an clouds
We travel by – it seems
As if the day was made to swell
A fellow up with dreams.
I don't know why my Gramma says
On Sunday it's a sin
To drive around an wade an all,
It makes you feared to grin.
I don't think Gramma ever saw
A Squirrel run up a Birch
Or else she'd understand as how
Out here's as good as Church.
(September 20,1948)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem