Barefoot Boy, With a Fishing Pole.

A man I am and near my end. I have other men to call me friend. And women round me for the lust And four leaf clover for the luck. Beer or buttermilk to drink And time I have to sit and think. I have meadows which to mow And I have crops which to sow. I have men that call me sir. I have work to be concerned. I have obligations piled. Work to do from mile to mile. I'd trade it all, to be, you know A barefoot boy, with a fishing pole. To rest in the shade by a river bed Soft grass to lay my youthful head. Fish and skip stones on waters calm And sleep out all night -when it's warm. To unravel natures mystery there Why the turtle wears a shell? How the Oriole's nest is hung? How the frog's croak is sung? Why the Blue-Bell does not ring? Why the hornet likes to sting? My work keeps me shod like a mule Only in dreams, youthful things I do. When work here ends, to Heaven I go To be a barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.