'Tis not about hot new Fords and Chevies;
Nor good ole boys down on the levees;
More to the point, tempus fugit;
In a place warmed by the Sound of Puget;
About three billion people ago;
Enchanted summer afternoons gold and green, glow;
Hills, swamps, fields, and creeks were to explore;
Ah, to see them just once more;
A farmer's paradise of little despair;
Rhubarb, daffodils, tulips, berries everywhere;
Great climate for growing, a natural greenhouse;
Pheasants are native as is the occasional grouse;
Cursed by youth and location;
Depressed the social situation;
With fair lasses to win;
The only transportation an old Schwinn;
That summer's only distraction;
Was a little fishing action;
Equipment was scarce, very dear;
A telescoping steel rod used many a year;
For creels and tackle boxes, knapsacks;
While fishing a creek along the Milwaukee tracks;
The mind does embellish;
The thoughts which we relish;
Going home not recommended;
The paths and trails all dead-ended;
The meadows, farms, and byways;
Covered all, with interstate highways.
