Little Mom Poem by Alexander Brown

My mom tells me a story of when she was little.
My grandpa's players, they all called her tiger,
come over to practice in the barn by her house.
Before balls could bounce and baskets shot.
Before passes made and stances taken.
The barn had to be swept of the straw.
They swept and swept and swept some more.
Sweeping took too long so they all got pitchforks.
My mom being petite and unnoticed got one too.
… To the head.