© 2010 Christopher Clymer Kurtz
Find an old-time park with a merry-go-round,
A seesaw creaking up and down.
A picnic basket and a shady tree;
Let’s go baby, just you and me.
Or let’s drive truck, see the great big world,
Crisscross states like a patchwork quilt.
Grab the horn, grind the gears;
Let’s go, baby, I'll pedal, you steer.
But we don’t belong on a schoolhouse slide
And you know we’ll get bored if we only drive.
There’s a garden out back, calling our names:
Tomatoes are ready .... No time to play.
You peel tomatoes at the kitchen sink;
I’ll cut up the onions, cry and think.
Red-hot salsa on taco chips,
Sweaty arms and stinging lips.
You know we don’t belong on a schoolhouse slide
And yeah we’ll get bored if we only drive.
There’s a garden out back calling our names:
Tomatoes are ready, time to play.
So let the warm breeze in through an open door;
Find a country station on the radio.
Jars of new salsa boiling on the stove.
Hey there, baby, I’m glad we’re home.