Hey, Bryce, I’m in my new Ford truck. I’ve tuned to CNN. This truck’s equipped with everything. I think I could move in.
When driving down our gravel road, I hardly feel a bump. The leather seats are soft and warm. They cushion this old rump.
And the seats adjust to my sore back, much better than my bed. My sleeping bag can roll right out. This truck’s messing with my head.
The worn out seat in my old truck had springs that poked up through. I’d show the new guy, “That’s your spot.” He didn’t have a clue.
That old truck hauled a ton of hay. Had fenders caked with rust. And I had to roll the windows down or breathe alfalfa dust.
My truck had air conditioning called “two and forty five.” Worked better with the windows down, the faster we would drive.
I’d pop the hood on that old truck and understand what’s there. Now when I raise this brand new hood, all I can do is stare.
This new truck has a telephone with internet to boot. I almost feel like going home and putting on a suit.
My truck is nicer than our car. The Mrs thinks it’s hers. I guess we better have a talk before a scene occurs.
The salesman said, “You’ll like this truck and won’t regret one bit.” Bet he doesn’t give the dangedest that my checkbook took a hit.
Well, harvest time is coming. Will this rig be up to snuff? It’s sure a way to find out if this truck is good enough.
Right now I needn’t worry. I’ve got time for one cigar. Then I think I’ll order dinner through that fellow from On Star.
I’ll try to make it up your way, I hope you like my truck. But now I’m having too much fun. I might just run amuck.