OLD MEMORIES

Walked by our schoolhouse this morning
My mind raced to many years ago.
One room building on a hill with an outhouse,
Eight lines of seats row-after-row.

First grade sat in the front row,
You could tell by the size of the seat.
Eighth graders were assigned to the last,
Farthest from the pot-bellied stove’s heat.

Teacher’s desk presided up front,
Nothing fancy—a kneehole and drawer.
On the wall behind was a paddle,
In case someone challenged its roar.

Old Glory stood in the corner,
Morning’s class sang her sweet song
And pledged allegiance to her
That would last our whole life long.

Now that’s taken a radical change,
There are those who won’t sing or pledge,
To do so is “unconstitutional”.
Is our world standing at the very edge?