From an old, standing oak tree next to a pond,
Hangs does it, a rope and tire from sun until sun.
Many seasons enjoyed, Summers of children,
Cobwebs do not gather, only those from the years.
Echoes of laughter, ghosts of those whom did once swing,
Always do they, back and forth this old, tire swing sways.
A tree that still stands, tire swing moves with the wind,
It ages but not the same as the children, this tire swing.