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In Grove Street I did play in sunny childhood days
Through fields we ran and played
And took rest under the shade of branches of green
Those were my childhood days
We sat and made daisy chains
We tested the yellow of the buttercup
Under our chins to check if we liked butter or not
In glorious childhood days
We ran threw overgrown abandoned land and through ditches
We skinned our bare arms and legs on the blackberry
bush thorns, An abandoned lid from a paint tin was our frisby
As we played in my childhood days
Through the bars in the old barracks we skinny lot
Were able to get past the "No Entry" signs
We played in the bombed out buildings without a thought of danger
In my free childhood days
The river at the end of the farmer's field was our seaside
On the riverbed of stones we sat as the flowing water rippled
over our legs, Catching pinkeens was our fishing of the day
In my Blessed childhood days
Off to Mass we went, some walking, some in the Pony and Trap
With truppence for the entry fee we knelt and prayed
We were dressed in our Sunday best and men tipped their hats to all
Such respectful and free childhood days
As we played in the yard Brownie would bark and drop his stone
We would throw it and there he would be time after time, tongue
out panting, for it to be thrown again, "Mammy, look at Brownie" and he
would plod away and leave us alone for a while to play
What blissful childhood days...
T A Keane May 2015
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