The Helmet

Every soldier needs a helmet
So I wear my Daddy’s bucket.
I have a trusty wooden sword
And a rope belt where I tuck it.

I ride Paint, my trusty stick horse
And go galloping through my room.
Don’t look at Paint too closely,
‘Cause you might think she’s a broom.

The bucket, that is my helmet,
Will surely be the death of me.
My horse would not run into things
If when she gallops, I could see.


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