We were out in our back yard
Roasting marshmallows on sticks,
Around an outdoor fire pit,
That our dad had made of bricks.

That’s when we heard the siren
And saw flames just down the street.
Like moths drawn to a street light,
We rushed there on flying feet.

The owners, standing, watching
The fire from their front yard,
The looks they gave us kids
Were frozen, cold and hard.

The woman wagged her finger
And the man began to cuss.
That’s when we noticed we’d each brought
Our roasting sticks with us.