**** Listen to the full Backroad Mix-O-Rama here: **** https://suno.com/playlist/21d62751-ce45-4cac-9e8e-766af0b4a800 “Relax, folks… that smell is just the ribs. If it were me… you’d know.” If I check out tonight, don’t you dare dress me neat. I ain’t leavin’ this world wearin’ church shoes on my feet. Drop me in the backyard, face up or face down long as the grill’s nearby when they lay me in the ground. Put a lighter in my pocket, stick a beer in my hand. If the angels ask questions, tell ’em: “He died as he planned.” If the devil shows up curious, ask him what he wants I’ve got plenty of smoke if he’s takin’ orders for lunch. Bury me on a backroad next to the grill and the beer I once owned. Let the smoke rise high, let the pork ribs slow ’cause grief tastes better with a side of burnt dough. Bury me on a backroad, no crying, no stone just grease on the dirt and a laugh in the bone. Don’t play no sad hymns, I ain’t that kind of dead. Just slap some sauce on my memory and tap your foot instead. Tell Uncle Jimmy to keep his shirt on this time — last funeral he flashed us was practically a crime. Park my old red Chevy as the VIP zone if it leaks anything flammable, well, so did I when I was grown. And if the coroner asks, “Should we make him look nice?” Tell him looks don’t matter I’m seasoned with spice. Bury me on a backroad next to the grill and the beer I once owned. Let the smoke roll high, let the laughter flow if you start feelin’ sad, turn the heat down low. Bury me on a backroad, no crying, no stone just ribs on the table and a man half-well-done. “Listen… if anyone brings kale salad to my funeral, I’ll crawl back out of that grave and personally return it to sender…” Lay my boots by the pit, don’t polish ’em clean. I want the dust of my life where the folks can still see. Stick a plate on my chest with some mac-n-cheese when Judgement Day hits, maybe God likes these. If the Good Lord calls early, tell Him I’ll be late. I’m waiting on dessert and it ain’t on the gate. If I must leave this world, do me one favor: keep the grill fired up that’s immortality’s flavor. Bury me on a backroad next to the grill and the beer I once owned. Let the smoke rise thick, let the stories get weird tell ’em the truth: “I loved him, but damn he loved beer.” Bury me on a backroad, no crying, no stone just a party in the dirt to send my soul home. “Well… the sky’s quiet, the night’s calm, but go on and turn me anyway. I wouldn’t want to burn on just one side.”
