Smoking Creek Side Poem by Christian Allen

Sun, trees are cold, follow me son
Come to the harvest of your youth
Dance with me around the leave piles
The smoke rises from this Georgia hill
Invite the summer storm, let him beguile

The longer you grow, the heavier the snow
For this winter wait, my age nothing to show
I have static doubts, and constant worries
That grave of my mind I cannot bury

Great masters of the crafts they’ve owned
Show nothing of toil or when progress has slowed
But everyone has dreams they cannot reach
It is but the duty of the effort, the success to breach

Be not ashamed, I’ll play my game
I’ll fish all day and drink liquor all night
I’ll chase her heart, or even it, venture to tame
The spoils of my freedom, but my youth’s delight