Coney Island and that throng,
Beaches, ocean, where prairie didn’t belong,
The experience was good to go,
At least of that we know.
One last time to walk through
The lobby with small ensemble,
Harp, piano, soprano in red,
I hate leaving this and I dread,
That trip back home again,
But found that it really wasn’t a sin,
We ambled along with casual care,
Stopping and going anywhere.
Terre Haute was where we stopped,
While Ura May shopped,
Linda, Uncle and I swam,
All over the damm.
