Calling the Hogs

A Sonnet

Your ol’ Daddy taught you to call those hogs
in your little ladyback uniform
as those boys played in burning heat and storm
while you jumped and shook and waved your pom poms.
As you got older you would sit with friends,
a garden of Razorback rose petals
tailgating Donald W. Reynolds,
a college campus full of college grins.
Your daddy and I met at the ball game,
we were overjoyed that you loved it so,
would go watch them play even when it snowed
with roaring passion hogwild and untamed,
	a young whisp of a thing, never a hog,
		did not even graduate a bull dog.