God's little feathered songsters
Are flitting here and there.
Amongst the lofty tree-tops
Their music fills the air
Each seeking some secluded crotch,
In which to build its nest
Its springtime in the Ozarks,
And life is at it's best!
The peach trees are aflame with bloom
A balm for weary eyes
The breeze picks up their sweet perfume,
and wafts it to the skies,
The wondrous work of God unfolds,
Throughout the endless miles,
It's springtime in the Ozarks
Land of a million smiles.
By my Great Grandfather, the Drywood Dreamer
