Brother, lets blow this popstand -
farm living's no life for me.
Let 'em keep their corn and cows,
we'll let the weather have its way.
You got it sister, gimme a nine to five,
a clock to punch, and weekends sleeping in.
I'll tell this pitchfork to stick it
where the sun don't shine.
And if the sun won't shine, it's no
skin off this straightedge nose.
Hey, let's buy ourselves some Tropic Tan
and Raybans and take off to sunny Florida.
You can cocktail in a beachfront bar,
I'll learn to play the ukelele, and sing
on the sidewalk, tin cup in front of me,
almanac in a drawer back in Iowa.
I can almost hear it now - the waves
splashing to marimba rhythms,
tall saltgrass swishing on the breeze.
We'll watch the sun melt from gold to red.
Baby, put on your best bikini,
orange hibiscus behind your ear.
I'll trade my muddy boots for flip flops,
Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned down to here.
We'll buy us a little coconut grove,
build a white clapboard house
with a porch and high arched windows.
Maybe plant some banana trees . . .
Hey! Hold your seahorses!
Whadda we look like -
a couple o' chuckleheads?