Thinking Of The Old Farmhouse

I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof. I want to wake up next to you lying softly by my shoulder. Then, while listening to the soft metal’s gently ringing, I would gently wake you with a shower of kisses and words of love so soft and safe that you would awaken to the joy that love is incarnate, and she is holding you tightly. I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof. I want to wake up from a great thunderstorm of lightning, and the kind of hard rain that sounds like thunder itself as the old tin roof buckles and warps, playing a chorus of moaning in its defense. Then, in the dark of the storm, we would huddle as the candles flicker, and we would cling closely to the fire and proudly remember the revolution. I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof. And I don’t want to have any memory of pain or tears; and I don’t want to hear of death or pestilence or horror; and I don’t want to be told of hate or how the Pope died, and I don’t want to be told about how my mother didn’t love me or how the belt felt when I was hit. I want to wake up happy. I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof.