They say a touch of spring is in the air; They say the wattle trees with bloom are gay; They say each garden now begins to wear -- (Not that I care) -- A festal garb that waxes day by day In loneliness. They tell, too, of blue skies Aglow with hope . . . I laugh them all to scorn, And gaze upon these things with listless eyes That see nought but a vista most forlorn. They say that bird songs come now with a rush Of rarest melody; the ambient air Thrills to the voice of blackbird and of thrush (I answer "Tush! Let `em go sing their heads off. I don`t care.") They say a kindly sun beams o`er the earth. They say -- Bah! Who pays heed to what they say? Life is a sham; a mockery is mirth; I`m making out my income tax today.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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