About This Time of Year
If my spirit yearned and my great heart burned for the feel of the open road,
If my soul were sick of the bailiwick and my back were bent with the load,
If I tasted the taint of the city's paint and I craved the meadow sweet,
If I felt the appeal of the yielding feel of the young earth under my feet,
If I longed for the free and the open sea and the salt spray on my cheek,
If I'd wishing pains for the Western plains and the wild coyote's shriek —
Should I be here writing insincere old stuff that the yearners sing
Of the Spaces? No! I'd hurry and go, and not write a gol-darned thing.
If my soul were sick of the bailiwick and my back were bent with the load,
If I tasted the taint of the city's paint and I craved the meadow sweet,
If I felt the appeal of the yielding feel of the young earth under my feet,
If I longed for the free and the open sea and the salt spray on my cheek,
If I'd wishing pains for the Western plains and the wild coyote's shriek —
Should I be here writing insincere old stuff that the yearners sing
Of the Spaces? No! I'd hurry and go, and not write a gol-darned thing.
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