As time wore on as time will do
The heart of wood wore old but true.
From in its cracks and splinters hear
The unwritten stories of each long year.

The piece of wood would have to choose
For there are many stories but whose?
The decrepit beam would tell, my friend
Of the little boy and his untimely end.

Most certainly this beam would say
That this tragedy started with a bit of hay.
A little boy not more than four,
Would follow his father out through the door,

Across the yard to the big barn doors,
To watch his father do the chores.
He'd feed the horses and the boy did love
To watch him throw hay from above.

One fateful day that little boy,
So curious and so full of joy,
Decided he would climb his way
Up to the loft where they kept the hay.

From twenty feet the boy looked down
He stumbled and fell to the ground.
His parents did not hear the sound
and it was very late before they found
That their little boy
Had fallen, fallen, fallen down.

The mother's face white as a sheet
The crimson lake spread at her feet.
"Send for the doctor," the mother plead,
"It's too late dear." -The boy was dead.