Buttercup and Me
When I was a boy
of only nine,
a little girl, named
Buttercup, picked
on me all the time.
She had freckles
all over her face,
she would steal
my bike and leave
it just any old place.
We moved away,
boy! was I glad,
I couldn't understand
why my Mom
looked so sad.
A few years later,
Mom called me inside,
"we're moving back home,
so pack up and get
ready to ride".
I sure hoped Buttercup
didn't live there anymore,
wondering if she did,
what mischief she would
have in store.
When we arrived a
beautiful girl walked up,
my eyes were like saucers,
when she said, "don't you
remember me, I'm Buttercup".
For reasons I won't say,
I'm glad to be back home!