It was a Sunday afternoon, a hot, dry summer day
I lounged in my back yard in the cool of the shade
My senses suddenly were hit with odors from afar
A tidal wave of smoke and vapor rolled across the yard
My nose was first to recognize the smell, and then my eyes
Began to sting from hickory flavored smoke from paradise
I blindly groped my way toward the sizzle and the hiss
That’s when I knew I had discovered Grillers in the mist
Those Grillers in the mist who sear their meat on open flames
And pause but once or twice to catch the score during games
But games are only games, alas, and fall way down the list
What’s on their minds is tending to the meat the flames have kissed
So to explain, in case you missed the point, well, here’s the gist
They’re barbequing, wiener roasting, grillers in the mist
They’re hot dog heroes, burger chefs, and masters of the grill
They baste and braise and season ribs and chops with utmost skill
So raise a toast when you eat steak whose taste you can’t resist
And thank the gastric gods for all the grillers in the mist
Copyright 2007 Donald Paul Harris