Come with me, my love, to the pumpkin spice fields
Where the harvest lies in wait
Under dappled leaves we’ll work with speed
The lattes can’t be late.
In my riding boots without any horse
I shall roam farms of idyll, with my iPhone of course.
And you’ll take pics and let me see,
An act of service to your beloved basic B.
We’ll drive, my love, to a pastoral place
No more than an hour from town,
Pack up the Hyundai and sit in traffic
With nary a window down.
Crisp wind on our cheeks and bucolic paths,
We’ll relish it for, like, an hour and a half
Then pick out a gourd, like on Rachael Ray,
And get home in time for half of Game Day.
But before that, my love, let’s get the kids dressed
In clothing smocked and monogrammed.
They’ll look so cute, we’ll pray they don’t puke
Before they’re thoroughly Instagrammed.
Stand in line for an hour and drop 40 bones
With families and couples and men in friend zones
To go to a simpler time than this
That we are all pretending to miss.
Wander, my love, through the great corn maze
And pose by a barn stacked with hay.
It’s the first barn wood we’ve ever seen
We didn’t have to reclaim.
Grab apple cider and pay the teenager,
Ignore the fact that it’s too hot for layers.
Lil’ Peyton fell down and Oliver smacked her
While our McLaren hoed rows like a big yuppie tractor.
It’s time, my love, to travel back home.
We’ll tarry not on the way.
Crimson carpet of leaves beneath our feet,
Help me pick a filter, okay?
The agrarian life is hard and takes focus,
But before we crack wine and watch “Hocus Pocus,”
Squash and corn for dinner, let’s grab some of those.
What do you say? Stop by Trader Joe’s?
