Champ Poem by melinda mackey

The wind blows, the trees sway
it sores through the air midway.
It's round, a plate.Not a frizby.Not a race.
Get some points for your team.
Throw it far, add some speed.
Not some inches but some yards.
Do your best throw it far.
Now it's over, now your done.
No more practice.You have won.
You won county.You state.
It was the discus, that round, like plate.
-melinda l. mackey