When I was small,
And he was able,
My grandfather and I picked blackberries
In his forest of a garden.
The raspberries were never my favorite,
So I’d only put what I wanted
In my washed out ice cream bucket.
We’d talk under the country sun as we worked
Until the bushes were bare.
And after we sat down inside,
To eat what we’d collected,
I would have the hardest time ever
Getting the red
Off of my little,