Life is short, the years rush past,
by Paul E. Compton
Our children seem to grow too fast.
Memories of tucking them in their crib,
Washing their diapers and baby bibs.
It seems we could never get out of sight,
Until we had kissed them all nighty-night.
We helped them fasten up their overalls,
And helped to dress their little dolls.
Now thats all part of yesteryear,
No goodnight kiss, no prayer to hear.
All we have left are fond memories,
The Children have their own families.