I strike a hot match against those Front-Porch-Sitting-Mowing Freaks who live across the street.
I'm out there every morning; Afternoons, too, My grass stands tall, And my fingers dance lightly across my dulcimer.
I'm strumming 'Wildwood Flower', mistakes and all. I get serious with 'Whiskey Before Breakfast', not well done. But then I break out with '******* Creek.' And who can fault me for that one? It's a happy tune, done well, or poorly.
Those **** neighbors sit across the way. They don't even bother to stare.
Something has changed. There is still no sparkle in their eyes, But I am happy.