The sophistication of the primitive

 At the french villa a wealthy father gave his son a yacht
One he would take to the Mediterranean
I told the son not to sail as he had never done it before
That he should learn first

I walked through the vineyard the random grapevines thick leaves
made me think of hands reaching out toward the constant changing seasons
They reneted out a huge part of their land for outdoor sports
Exclusive people would do their trekking and rock climbing

Up on a pass on the range far above the estate there was a cave
There we were to prepare a barbecue to symbolize the primal
Cousins and restless drunks arrived insisting on how to build kindling
I inched them out with a handy shard and lengthy knife

Then went about conjuring that sweet fire that turns the raw into cooked
I lost myself in the turning of meat in the bragging of colleagues
I lost myself in the madness of overdressed macho obtuseness
Tools and matches, soot and charcoal, we were primitive