Apple Cider

I am riding in
A bus with my
Third-grade class
To visit a southern
Illinois farm to
Learn about our
Farming heritage,
We are wild to be
Free of the classroom
And eager to explore.
The old farmer keeps
An eye on us and our
Young teacher who
Has long red nails she
Uses to cut Manila
Paper on a door crack.
We are impressed and
Trust her judgement.
After hours running
At full tilt all around the
Farm we sit at three long
Picnic tables under the
Trees and eat our bag
Lunches and drink the
Apple juice the old farmer
Has generously provided.
We fill our paper cups
Twice from the small
Barrel and are still wide
Eyed at our surroundings
As our teacher laughs
With the old farmer who
Smiles and laughs.
On the bus back to town
We turn quiet and then
Begin to feel nauseous
As we try to digest apple
Cider and a bus ride.
We erupt onto the floor,
Our seat or out a window,
Our teacher seems queasy
And unhappy at it all.
We arrive back at the
School, some to a
Waiting parent and
Most to walk home
As best we can.
A lesson we
Do not comprehend
But most of us
Will learn again
Later in life.