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Brent A. Lane
There once lived a young boy, quite curious in nature,
He loved to play in the woods and ask questions,
One day he asked Father, What does my name mean,
It is not a name about insects, or things I've seen.
Well son, the trees grow green, large, and tall,
The wood is used for lumber and the leaves always fall,
Those leaves look healthy, saturated with moisture,
Then wither and shrivel with each passing season,
But you are not named after a tree.
Our family roots are firm, good soil to keep,
The forefathers resting their bodies in sleep,
Dust we begin and dust we return,
I know not your name in our family history.
The rocket goes fast and furious in pace,
Such rapid excitement reaches a climax quickly,
Often the glorious travel fades and fizzles out,
Your name is not one of fireworks and sparks.
This organ pumps blood in mass amounts,
Giving life to the whole body,
Without this, one is miserable, even dead,
Stiff and lifeless, cold in bed.
This muscle flexes and bends like no other material,
Besides being limber, it works deathly hard,
To bring life to the body; it could last almost indefinitely
If it is not subject to abuse or illness,
Father, did you name me after this wonderful thing.
When I named you, I thought of your Mother,
What she teaches and radiates each day,
The heart is a symbol as pure as a dove,
I named you son in the name of love.
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