The old farmer and I
Sit on the bed of the pickup
With burgers and sweet tea.
I feel like a kid again
Dangling my legs off the edge
And watching his kind blue eyes
Dance like the sea
As he talks about the corn market,
Hay prices,
And his brahma-angus breed.
Freed from the chains of stress
That oppress my
Every waking moment.
We don't hurry.
The crinkle of the paper bags
And the simple groan of the cows
Keep rythym to our slow vacation from
Hurriedness and worriedness,
And I realize, with the old farmer
You can escape to another, quieter world
When you open your paper bag and put a straw
In your sweet tea.
The world needs more paper bags
And sweet tea.