The Red Brick Lesson

The Sunday service had just reached its end, Into the family van, we children did wend. Dad was up front, and Stepmom at the wheel, the customary journey began to feel real. But in the mirror's glass, my omission was plain, I sat without harness, defying the chain.
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Her face turned to fury, she started to yell,
Her glances shot back, a story to tell.
She commanded the buckle, an angry demand, But I met her insistence with a stubborn "No!" hand. She turned off the road, the decision was fast, a line had been drawn that I could not pass.
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The engine then stopped, by a building so clear, a fortress of brick, colored solemn and sheer. The red brick police station, where rules are obeyed, a silent authority where a big lesson's made. We walked inside, to a man with a badge on his vest,
He put all the anger and yelling to rest.
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He didn't lecture or scold with a frown,
But explained why the strap must always be down. He spoke of the physics, the life it could save, the respect for the rules that good citizens gave. I listened to wisdom, so steady and true, the simple right choice I knew I must do.
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A sheet of bright stickers was the seal of the day, and as we departed and drove on our way, the yelling was gone, the tension was past, only the honest conversation would last.

The engine then stopped, by a building so clear, a fortress of brick, colored solemn and sheer. The red brick police station, where rules are obeyed, a silent authority where a big lesson's made.

From that moment forward, without question or wait, the seat belt was fastened, sealing my fate.

Acoustic Folk and Country