Was summer made for barefoot boys,
Or barefoot boys for summer?
While some might question which is right,
It's boys who never 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 bark bruises shins,
And apple-sting their friends below,
Who give back sassy grins.
They leap and dance through tingling spray
From Papa’s garden hose,
As ground becomes a slush of mud
They squish between their toes.
The bell upon 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
And climb the tallest trestle;
Then, on the softness of mown grass,
They tumble, roll, and wrestle.
On Mama’s cool linoleum,
They tiptoe in for snacks,
And never notice when they leave,
They’ve left their dusty tracks.
These little lads are seldom still;
Yet, for entire days,
They fish upon a river bank,
Not feeling sun’s bright 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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