THOSE WERE THE DAYS

Son, hop right here, upon my knee
And I’ll tell you how it used to be,
When I was young and in my prime
With little hope and lot’s of time,
To fantasize and then to dream!

I was usually up at five o’clock
And at the crowing of the cock
I’d slip into my overalls
And head out to those old mule stalls.
And then I’d take a leak!

Then I’d hitch up that stubborn team
To a turning plow down by the stream,
Where those two mules would drink their fill
And as we started up the hill,
They would always jump the traces!

When you walk behind two mangy mules
As you obey your father’s rules
And as you plow that fertile ground
You pray that some way could be found
To keep them mules from breaking wind!

Now I’ve back slidden more times
Than all the verses, notes and the rhymes
Crammed into a hymnal book
And each time I wondered what it took
To keep from cursing mules!

When we put away the plows
My father had me chasing cows.
As for my age, I was quite mature
But I always slipped in cow manure
Every single, stinking day!

So I grew up and changed the rules.
I never owned a team of mules.
I swore off those turning plows
And let someone else chase mangy cows.
Now I have clean lungs and feet!