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GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
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Go back in time to my young prime, to nineteen thirty - five;
when I was just a lad of nine; when songs were "jute box jive."
No hostile conflicts in our midst, just peace and harmony;
no one knew the word, amiss, and all felt good and free.
Our neighborhood on Castle Street was nicknamed "Old Dry Pond"
where everyday the kids would meet - and all of us would bond.
We skated days and even nights without a thought of fear;
of riding bikes or flying kites, for cars were never near;
and we sometimes walked to our downtown, or rode a city bus;
ten cents a trip for all around was quite alright with us!
Now about that time we chanced to find just one good "fad" around,
long ago before TV, when no "drugs" could be found.
No smoking pot, no sexy ad, no drive-by shooting sprees;
just shootin' marbles was the "fad" that kept us all at ease.
And "marbles" was a simple game, just bunch 'em in a ring,
burst 'em with a shooter's aim, then watch the marbles spring!
If any marble, one or more would leave the outer rim,
You got to pocket them for store, and still you shoot again;
should you pick up all there were, opponents having none;
a wizard then you're referred for all the marbles won.
We often had a brilliant scheme, at least that's what I thought;
until appeared upon the scene...a lesson we were taught.
Now from the past, a tale I'll cast..straight from my memory lane;
an unknown name whose marble game, made all our egos wane.
For on one early summer morn we chose a spot to play,
the best of shooters true to form came on to win that day.
Well, we played about a-half a day, my pockets all filled up,
and I believed I'm on the way to claim the champion's cup;
but then appeared a little guy, his barefeet tough as rocks,
with blue eyes like a summer sky and hair with golden locks.
This lad was only four feet tall, a new kid on the block,
I saw no problem here at all, for sure he'd go in hock.
But on his face he wore a sneer just like a red sly fox,
and smartly grinned from ear to ear, and clutched an empty box.
His hands were large as t-bone steaks that held five marbles there;
for four was all it took for stakes, with one, a shooting sphere.
His hands showed much of tear and wear, as tough as they could be;
for spots of blood shown here and there upon his hand and knee;
and when he cocked his huge right thumb to let the shooter go..
I realized then the shot to come...would be a mighty blow!
The shot he fired, a trembling blast, caught everybody's eyes...
for half the marbles rolled out fast and dealt us our demise;
for then he commenced to settle down and shoot the others out;
with one knee there upon the ground, the game became a rout!
I never saw so much grace displayed by anyone,
he moved in such a splendid pace, and made his shooter run;
also made his shooter spin, go left, go right or stop;
all to gain a spot within to win the marble crop.
So in the end he filled his box, and crowned the king was he;
and by the hands of grandpa's clock comes back this memory,
that came a lesson learned back then, which you can always bet;
no matter how much skill you've earned...
there's someone better yet!!
William E. Hardison
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