Summer is here for 82 days

My whistle’s hung up, my bullhorn’s put away.

School is out,the year is done;

Just in time, too, for everyone

is sick of me with my drill sergeant schtick

including myself, I wouldn’t have picked

this role to play, harsh, grating and shrill:

“Hurry up! You’ll be late! This isn’t a drill!

Come on! Eat your food, brush your teeth, what’s your deal?!

Brush your hair, get dressed, take your hayfever pill!

Get your shoes, where’re your socks, grab your bag, here’s your lunch!

We’re going to be late; help me out just for once!

No, please don’t start crying, we just don’t have time.

Sweetie, I love you, I promise that I’m

not mad, just hurry, here give me a hug.

Let’s go, dry your tears and know that you’re loved.”

No, that’s all over for 82 days

My whistle’s hung up, my bullhorn’s put away

Until next school year sleep in, eat slow,

take your sweet time, wherever you go.

Turn all alarms off, close all the blinds,

stay up a bit later, catch fireflies.

Read books, watch TV, swim, draw, play outside.

Your time is all yours for 82 days

My whistle’s hung up, my bullhorn’s put away

Excuse me, what’s that? What did you say?

Your brother did what? Then you pushed him away?

Hold on, be right there, how silly of me;

I still need my whistle and bullhorn to referee.