If you have a poem, song lyrics or a short story and you would like to share it with the readers of The Statesman now is your chance. Email or mail us your submission and look for it in an upcoming issue of The Statesman. MY KID FRIENDS Everybody had nicknames when I was a kid. Some of us were named for the things we did. Mine was `Cowboy' given by a man named Grady. I always waited on his school bus where it was shady. One of my first buddies was nicknamed `Pat', He was a little different, and that's a fact. He always wanted to run away from home, But not far from Mankin did he ever roam. My good buddy `Jabo' was a little plump; Across the big ditch he wouldn't jump. His last two years of school, he skipped. Joined the Army and went to Korea on his senior trip. Moved in with `Bob', `Doc' and `Bo' when I was sixteen. We had more fun that anyone has seen. Going to the movies, playing ball, playing in the woods; For the first time in my life, I really had it good. `Congo Bill' turned out to be one of my best friends. If I had not joined the Air Force we'd be in the pen. We were wild and mean, undisciplined and loud. He's been jailed and beaten and shot and stabbed. `Muscles' was one of my best friends ever. Like me, he liked to pull a joke on a feller. He was sent to the pen when he was a kid, But he repented for the wrongs that he did. I am glad to have had these guys as my buds, Even though some of them sound like duds, They never really meant to harm anyone. Our daddys were pistols and we were sons of a gun. by Dwayne Garner INDIAN SUMMER When the scent of ripening apples Wafts gently on the breeze, The goldenrod turns yellow, And Nature paints the trees; Yellow pumpkins dot the fields, Amid corn shocks in fall, And from the azure skies above The sound of wild geese call. These subtle changes taking place All wrapped in a pale blue haze, Are signs of the season winding down To golden Indian Summer days. by Dorothy Miller Birdwell SENTRY Ghostly silhouettes stand on craggy rocks, While eerie winds moan and knock The clouds hide their castles grim While neath the waves silent creatures swim, A solitary figure stands on guard, A unicorn, the castle's bard. by Jeanne Mancini