Some little things have changed
The sand replaced by wood-chips
While his need to feed remains
In scruffiness he breaks the rules
He's adverse to being neat
And contrasts his smile, disarming
With my war on smelly feet
With Sammy now in high school
I've become a tiresome nag
"Pick that up", "what's in your hair?"
His school bag makes me gag!
Seldom home when not at school
I know the brink of doom
By BMX or internet
It hangs around his roomNow Sammy is in high school
He keeps me on the run
Despite the grimy edges
The whole family has some fun
By fun I mean surviving
And so you see it clearly
We know every paramedic
And have learned to love them dearly
He still remains our Sammy
Through sand and smells and stitches
And somehow he keeps coming home
To get kicked up the britches!
Love you Sam.