“Summertime,” Ensign, Mar. 1977, 71
In our book there’s a space for a summer poem:
With what luscious things shall we fill it?
With water for splashers
And ice cream on dashers
And root beer so high that you’ll spill it!
I’m glad there’s a space for a summer poem,
Though I’m sure that we’ll soon run it over
With bikes right for racing
And frisbees for chasing
And picnics spread out in the clover.
Now pile the space higher,
Add a tent, add a fire—
And drowsy-eyed papas and mamas,
Who chauffeur their crew
To a drive-in or two
Before we need winter pajamas.