Pull out the fried chicken and turn out the light, we're gonna' have a picnic with blanket in sight. It'll be a grand affair with all the latest trimmings. An all day affair with potato of salad and slaw of Cole. I might take a nap in a little rabbit hole. Give me a biscuit, give me a scone. I just wanna' feel like a brand new home. The rooms are all clean with footprints in sight. There will be ice cream, of course. Strawberry, coffee and vanilla. Three types with French, speckled and plain old-fashioned. Chocolate chips, fresh fruit and more, will be on hand, just like a little grocery store. The dogs will be running from yard to yard, hoping to find a scrap there or a handout here. The hot dogs will char on the outside with care. They'll be relish, ketchup and all sorts of mustard: yellow, spicy and maybe even Dijon. We'll pray for those far away to come home. The chips will be flying like little flying saucers as we watch "Born On The Fourth Of July" and listen to flashbacks of Billy Joel, Don McLean and Simon with Garfunkel. "The Boxer" will play like an anthem within, and the church echos with the sounds of silence. Watermelon will be sliced, hacked and eaten. The spitting seeds will be target practice. We'll save our doubts for battle and blank ammunition. We'll pray that we never see that day. Candles will be lit at the end of the night as fireflies spin circles around our alcohol breaths and smoking cigarettes. The booms. The pops. They are all in the distance. A train whistle blows while I'm sharing my confidence of New Years resolutions. I'll stuff my face with pies of apple, berry and maybe even of huckleberry. The forks will turn and the spoons will snore. We wish for the best and hope for the future. We start again and do it some more. Like never a time have we seen before. We sleep. We rollover. Can't wait until next year, then we do it some more.
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