Robert Frost did write in settings beautiful and rustic
He wrote of rolling hills and green terrain
But poor me I must do my writing in the chaos of the city
Sometimes even on a subway train
How am I to ever learn about the woodlands
And the falling leaves of autumn, and such things sublime
When I must spend all my time just trucking 'round this dirty city
Doing what I can to earn a dime, dime, dime
How did Robert Frost make payments on that little country place of his
Where did he get the dough?
Could he go down to the country store and sell a poem, saying
"Here's a nice one I wrote about the snow"
Surely now he must have had a sponsor of some sort,
Perhaps a lady friend just rolled in bread
A lady friend to say "Now, Bob, why don't you take a long, long walk
And write whatever pops into your head, head, head"
She'd say, "Bobby don't you worry about the mortgage, no no,
Bobby don't you worry about those bills.
Bobby why don't you go write a poem about the neighbors,
About the fences, about the rolling hills."
"Bobby don't you worry about the dishes,
And don't you even think about those pans.
Bobby you know it's not good that an artist like yourself
Should be walking around this world with dishpan hands."
So you see now Bob was free to follow through his fancies
Wander through the hills behind the muse
Boy if I had Bobby's life I'd follow through my fancies,
Oh, to be in Bobby's shoes
If I had Bobby's life I could be a hero
Go out and find my fortune and my fame
The only trouble is, I hear from people who have found it
That everything in life stays just the same, same, same
Just the same
Stays the same
Just the same