It's 1948

and rural America don't sleep late

Frog Harbor held an allure

at the rail bridge we'd gather

perched above the stream

usually we were three or four

discarded wine and whisky bottles

we gathered from the sot's path

at the track's edge

from the upside of the stream

we tossed the bottles in

then ran to the opposite side

and hurled stones

as the current carried them by

and bottles we broke

to six year old lads of my era

could there be more

for Saturday entertainment

if our day began real early

the extra treat of a sleeping sot

in the trees next to the track

we could spot

before the local authorities

carted them off

for a night's stay in the county lockup

a visit to the wrong side of the tracks

what a perfect tale

for a young lad's resume'

Frog Harbor

whatever happened

to that special allure, the cure 

for any lad's ailments

'twas always a perfect elixir