Spanish Moss

Here beneath the spanish moss,

in the shade of cypress trees,

the ship I made out of popsicle sticks,

is ready to claim the high seas.

There's a boat cruising along,

somewhere out on the misty lake,

the storm has come and gone,

and calm has taken it's place.

I fear I may sink my boat,

How many popsicle sticks does it take,

to keep her afloat,

upon the purple lake?

The night grows near,

the sun sets with ease,

the scent of mixed drinks and beer,

dances on the breeze.

Finally the twilight hush,

the people get off their feet,

forgetting the work week rush,

and enjoy their company and eat.

This is all we can afford,

but we love this place,

all the boats are moored,

the water becomes still on the lake.

Faintly music floats,

in on the summer wind,

and laughter along with the notes,

come from another pier.

We happily sit on the dock,

and admire the stars,

that reflect in the lake water,

and feel so small, and yet so glad.

I'm working on setting this to music....