Truck's loaded and I've been hauling gear through the frost since before the sun came up — sweatpants are about all that survived. Come ride up to Detroit with me, baby.
Truck's loaded and I've been hauling gear through the frost since before the sun came up — sweatpants are about all that survived. Come ride up to Detroit with me, baby.
Bees need their winter wraps and I'm out here before the sun's even up getting it done — Detroit's waiting Sunday but the hives can't wait. Come stand out here in the cold with me, baby.
Coffee's dripping, 6-and-0's got the whole day feeling like it's already mine, and I haven't found a reason to put anything on yet. Come be that reason, baby.
Rain's got the fields too soft to run, so the old girl gets her grease-up in the shed instead — and this shirt's been hanging on the fender since the first pass. Whole afternoon just opened up, baby. Come keep me company out here?
Watch party leftovers: a yard full of folding chairs, a cooler of empties, and a 6-and-0 football team still standing as the last unbeaten one in the league. Cleanup's going a whole lot slower than those ribs disappeared. Come carry the other end of this table, baby?
Ribs are rubbed, wrapped, and sleeping in the fridge till tomorrow — Colts prep is officially done and the first cold one's finally cracked. Two more sleeps till kickoff, baby — you saving me a seat on that couch or am I saving you one?
Vikes got taken out behind the woodshed in LA, so I'm taking it out on the truck — winter tires going on a week early and the shirt lost the argument about ten minutes in. Come hold the light for me, baby?
Butcher had my rib order ready and this cooler's heavy enough to prove it — Sunday's watch party at our place is officially on. Come help me carry it in, baby?
Split half a cord of oak out back and the flannel never stood a chance — cold snap's rolling in and this woodpile's got to be ready before the Colts get here Sunday. Come stack the rest with me, baby?
Hauled the last of the bales into the loft and I'm wearing half of it — straw dust, sweat, and a Monday that started before the coffee did. Colts week starts with a clean barn and a dirty man. Come dust me off, baby?