Like Plastic on a Flat-top Range

I thought I’d try my hand at Country Song Writing. I may have been listening to Garth Brooks’ ‘Thunder Rolls’ on repeat; as inspiration.

8:30 in the morning, I’m almost late for work
reaching for the tea pot, never noticing the baggie of garlic,
perched up on that ledge.
I musta’ been rushing, blundering about,
just as I moved the tea pot, the Ziploc tumbled down.

And the plastic burned,
it torched to the stove.

Every burner’s burnin’, across the oven range
In the blink of an eye that baggies’
pasted into a gooey pool
way too hot to touch it, I tell ya that I tried.
Hurried off to work,
prayin’ if I let it cool, It’ll peel off right.

And the plastic burned,
it torched to the stove.
And the plastic burned,
melted on that red light,
now it grows cold,
while I Google what to do.

Now I’m an American, and we’re all born knowin’:
‘If it moves and shouldn’t, duct tape;
If it don’t move and should, WD-40′
And a bit of spit n’ elbow grease,
an’ a slice of apple pie. . . a la Freedom.

And that plastic burned,
melted to the stove.

Then my wife, she left me,
an Ol’ Blue died,
I hawked my Daddy’s watch,
just to stay alive.

I hit the Hardwear Store,
checked my plan with the deaf ol’ boy
He nodded and spat his chew,
which I took to mean,
“it’s what I’d do.”

And that plastic had burned,
cooled to the stove,
Cuffed up my sleeve,
and with a razor blade I strove,

And all that’d burnt
I peeled away
with WD-40,
and a razor blade.

All ‘cause the plastic burned,
it melted to the stove.
The only way I sleep, is ‘cause I know,
It can’t hurt him, what the Landlord don’t know.