Southbound on the Cedarville Line,
My Texas home is on my mind.
I’ve only got four States to go,
It’s a long, long way from Ohio.
Indianapolis goes flying by,
Someone behind me starts to cry.
I’m not the only one alone,
But at least (at last) I’m heading home.
The Land of Lincoln’s just a blur,
I turn around to look at her.
Her crying stopped a few miles back,
Now, it’s just the clicking of the track.
St Louis and the engines needed fuel.
The dining car refilled the gruel.
I grabbed another cup of joe,
Just a few more hours left to go.
Oklahoma, we just blew right past.
Next is Texas, home at last.
Cross the border to the Lone Star State.
Hurry now, let’s not be late.
Made it home on the Cedarville Line.
In fact, we made it right on time.
Texas underfoot at last.
Northbound before the summer’s passed.
My grandkids rode around in my car.
We set the locks so they can’t go far.
They tried to escape just one time each.
The secret lock was out of their reach.
We went home at last, sad to say.
We’ll go back up again someday.
Later, their Dad came down to visit.
Well, to a meeting, same thing, is it?
We went to dinner, which was quite a treat.
We got home, but he’s still in the back seat.
A grandmother wants control of her title.
Choosing what she is called seems vital.
Some will never be “Grams” or “Granny.”
They want to be called “MomPlus” or “Sammy.”
Grandfathers don’t really seem to care.
Since we get called random terms here and there.
I have been “Grandpa”, “Papa”, “Grampy”, so to speak.
All of those were just in the past week.
Next time, I’ll have another name.
I will probably have myself to blame.
I said my name was King Frank-Bob.
We’ll see if that’s accepted by the mob.
I answer to the term my grandkids choose,
Either good or bad, win or lose.
Call me a saint or call me a sinner.
Just don’t call Grandpa late for dinner.
Please keep me safe from harm.
Let me return home safely.
And please keep me from
Killing my companions.
Thousands of raw acres
of prime South Texas land.
Mesquite, minimal water,
Fossils, fences and sand.
It’s a place to raise cattle,
With horsepower and sweat.
You can become wealthy,
It’s just not how to bet.
From the thousands of acres
Generations sliced off their share.
One ranch became ranches,
But nobody seemed to care.
The pastures were a man’s world,
There were no girls allowed.
There were many disappointments,
Some best not said out loud.
When I first visited the ranch,
It stretched as far as I could see.
Someone said, “That’s nothin’, son”.
“This used to reach to Uvalde.”
One by one, they moved to town,
It’s where they all belonged.
This could have been the King Ranch,
If they could have got along.
Sunday is a day for family.
Time to spend together, chilling.
This is why God invented wine.
It’s to help prevent the killing.
It’s a time to recall old stories.
Reenact them with force.
Reopen some old wounds.
Then, the pasta course.
I’m not sure the term for
A loud, three-way argument.
There’s the same mutual respect
As in the Houses of Parliament.
There’s lots of good food,
So many emotions to tap.
After eating and discussing,
There may be time for a nap.
Sleep with one eye open.
We ate dinner at a “family style” restaurant.
This is an interesting concept.
I’m not sure who invented it.
To their marketing team, it means
You have platters of food and you serve yourself.
To someone who married an Italian, it means
You have a loud discussion between courses,
And a fight over dessert.
We’ve been asked to find another restaurant.
I guess I shouldn’t have told the waitress
She was dressed like a slut.