He lived on a beautiful, rural farm, back in fond, good old days of yore,
With his parents and two brothers; like sun's going in and out the door.

He had always adored the color blue, so he had been nicknamed that.
At eight years old, he was youngest; and as frolicsome as an acrobat!

Blue did daily chores on the farm, like diligent nature's green chores;
From dyeing skies various hues, to sweeping petals off emerald floors.

Though fond of fanciful daydreaming, Blue yet found the time for fun,
With friends, before a mulberry day faded, sulkily taking sangria sun.

Fall feigned fading life with feeling, and fruit trees wept fuchsia tears;
When faraway family came to visit, in flattered, scarlet, flower years.

Blue lived in the house of the blues, only gleeful blues, instead of sad;
For his room was painted shades of it, like some of the clothes he had.

The shaggy donkeys and sauntering horses, were the common sights;
Upon a starry, red sunset street, beside their farm of silver moonlight.

Nice weather necessitated neighborly visits, like nature needing green;
And making never-dying spring and summer, in gold nugget like sheen.

Easter egg plants were baffling hens, in the season of butterfly blooms,
Gracefully flying atop slender stems, to create magic, in gilt afternoons!

Tiger eye pansies were always watching, in the middle of obsidian night;
And candelabra blooms lit up gardens, to cast dusk in soft, romantic light.

One day Blue drifted off to sleep, watching puffy clouds cross blue sky;
And while he dreamed, he was smiling, like lazy summer's orange sigh.

Now, the schoolmaster came, to say there'd be no school the next day,
As administrative business was done Friday; like ruby birds flying away.

Blue was absent from his chores, so the teacher helped to look for him.
He espied him under a haystack, smiling unawares, as is nature's whim.

'Little Boy Boy Blue, come blow your horn,' called out the stern teacher.
'The sheep's in the meadow. The cow's in the corn,' said he to dreamer.

'Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?' cried a puzzled farm hand.
'He's under the haystack, fast asleep,' replied Teacher, in gold sun, grand.

'Will you wake him?' queried the farm hand, vexed as windswept blooms.
'No, not I,' said Teacher, noting blissful looks, sweet dreams often assume.

'For if I do, he's sure to cry,' he said, creeping off, like tangerine afternoon,
Gazing back yet again, to revere the sight, like song skies, turning maroon.