Sure, come on over. Anytime.
Give me the grinds of yesterday’s coffee and allow me to munch on them with a bitter happy existence while I put a hole in your tailpipe so the whole world can hear what a blowhard and listless extravagance we’ve become. I’ll wake up soon and the gravel in my voice will subside as I yell and stretch and throw last nights dishes.
I’ll break out the folding lawn chairs, only to give you a tour right after setting them on that lush grass- at a marching pace to a dead stop- a marching pace to a dead stop- for you to see all my sites.
Then, I’ll build a bonfire for you in the middle of the morning to honor your visit. We’ll swim in the pond and I’ll show you just how easy it is to catch a frog then let it go- catch a frog then let it go- after which you’ll reluctantly pet the slickest skin you ever put your cheek to.
Drone of early afternoon grasshoppers and the lapping of the waves should put me in some kind of mood that only wet skin and moss can do. I’ll chug water from the well’s spigot and you’ll catch a taste and the rooster will come running with a herd behind and they’ll ask about the frogs.
Then, I’ll make us bacon over the fire and offer an old baseball for us to toss while I use the tongs in one hand and you’ll barely break a sweat.
Before we walk the trail with the Pointer and hunt down berries and big, designer leaves, I’ll remember to put my pants on.