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Most of us boys used to carry 'round,
Sinched-up in a draw-string bag;
All the marbles we wanted to play,
For show... or a chance to brag.

We lived for that time that came each day,
Draw'n circles in playground dirt;
Young boys wear'n holes in denim jeans,
And never tuck'n in our shirt.

It was easy to tell just who'd been practice'n,
He'd be the one with the dirty knees;
You'd try shoot'n first all the pretty, big ones,
Leave'n till last the glassy peas.

I spent late nights admire'n my collection,
Even name'n a favorite few;
There was Cat-Eye-Mary and Steely Joe,
One by one their numbers grew.

I kept them hid away in an old cigar box,
Behind my bedroom closet door;
And once in awhile... for pure enjoyment,
I'd count 'em out on the hardwood floor.

Now when it came to shoot'n marbles,
Most all of us was good;
But little Frankie was our local champion,
Head'n shoulders above he stood.

Why... he'd come to school tote'n only six,
Which was the minimum drop;
And 'fore the end of morn'n recess,
He'd won enough to fill a sock.

Yes... think'n back on my childhood heroes,
Right there with Hoppy, Roy, and Gene;
Held up high in a place of honor,
Is little Frankie... The Marble King.