WORKING IN THE MILL

Grounded from my ball
Outside, I pick up sticks
Hiding rocks in my overalls
Through the acres, I watch for ticks

My ball taken by divest,
I find a place roaming top the hill
Quiet and peaceful, a place of rest
So much different than inside the mill

A day of labor
A day like all others
We eat our chowder
And please our mothers

But working late in the mill
Is cause for my grounding
Never again will I slowly till
But with haste, I will be pleasing

To both Mama and the mill
So never again I'll have to pick up sticks
And never again I'll be late to till
And all my problems will be fixed