Little Thunderbird
I see your face.
Little Thunderbird
Ready to race.

 Your suit is creased
And your shoes are worn
Still you cut the waves
For which you were born.
*
Made fast to the dock
You patiently stand
Awaiting a skipper
To take your hand.

Your regular dance
The summer through
Wednesdays and Fridays
Sometimes Saturdays too.

Whatever tempo
The band will blow
You take a deep breath
And go on with the show.
*
Your suit is creased
And your shoes are worn
Still you cut the waves
For which you were born.
*
When the horns tune up
And the downbeat drops
You approach the line
Pull out all the stops.

To starboard you step
To port you swing
Around the buoy
Then back wing on wing.

When the band packs up
And the floor is clear
Another has won
But there is no tear.

The next time you’re asked
You’ll do it again
The feel of the music
To draw you in.
*
Your suit is creased
And your shoes are worn
Still you cut the waves
For which you were born.

Little Thunderbird
I see your face.
Little Thunderbird
Ready to race.





Dedicated to Blackbird Associates