Song of the Sad Suburbanite

O, for a place where there ain’t no lawns,

     Where there ain’t no grass grows green;

Where there ain’t no hose nor nothing like those,

     No clippers nor mowing machine.

Where there ain’t no rake, no spade nor hoe,

     Nor a weed-growed garden plot;

Do anyone know, above or below,

     Of any such heavenly spot.

Where there ain’t no walks to dig and trim,

     No flowers to sprinkle down;

No ashes to screen no windows to clean,

     No bundles to lug from town.

Do anyone know of a place like this?

     I would go ‘twer’t beyond the stars;

I’m sick of the things suburban life brings,

     And the jam of the sardine cars.

Aug. 7, ‘07