Another morning, another day.
Too wet to go out, too wet to play.
Staring through the frosted panes;
I see the cubby fortress in the rain.
Fingers draw upon the glass, an unhappy face;
For there is nowhere to go, no playing space.
The laundry is too small you see.
The Budgie cage, the washer , the dryer and me.
So where to play, what to do?
Then I decide; my eyes open wide.
For there on the shelf is a folded up sheet.
Its Mothers, her best Sheriden, so neat.
Pretty pink flowers, with tiny green leaves.
So I stick out my tongue sideways, and roll up my sleeves.
For if I can’t play outside in the rain;
I’m going to build a tent, and be an Indian brave.
Indians are cunning, daring and wise;
And I sneak past my Mother in the kitchen;
Who calls out..”What are you doing?” to which I lie;
“Colouring…in my room”, then off I scamper.
Down the hall and in my room;
Where you can make a tent with a sheet, chair and broom.
So while the rain continues to fall,
I sit in my Sheridan sheet tepee,
Like an Indian squaw.