|
I do love summer as a rule, I've time to play and there's no school. There's peace and quiet, yes, until, My dad decides to use the grill. "It's cook out time!" comes from his mouth And birds leave early for the south. For the ball park near us it's no joke. Last year ten games were called for smoke. As everybody clears the scene, He lights the coals with gasoline. Ever since he scorched his hair, He has asbestos underwear. The burgers sizzle, then they flare. As Dad calls out, "Who wants 'em rare?" We all shudder when we see. His dangerous rotisserie. The free range chickens twist and turn, And drip on wieners as they burn. When this aroma spreads through town Our neighbors hose their houses down. He boils the vinegar and oil, For salad he has cooked in foil. The fire department came to see One cookout when he burned a tree. He roasts the corn right off the ear, His blackened brats we really fear. Dad's secret sauce, he stirs with glee, To spread on ribs that stick to me. And when we all sit down to eat, We chew and chew and chew the meat, And praise him, even though it's bad. Cause after all, he is our DAD! —Grandpa Tucker |