Nothing brings back nostalgia that windmills do
now sitting idle by empty homes or buildings too,
The tall grass blocks part of its view
With hard times it got families through.
Now the creaking, squeaking blades turn
With few on lookers, the excitement no longer burns.
Yet I am thankful than I see them dotted along old places,
Taking me back to a time my past can’t erase,
when I would pump the old rusty red pump
Each dripping drop of water would fill my cup.
So today pretend you are a windmill to some friend
And know what you are doing is fillin their cup up.