Ain’t there, Padoy, my dear?
You’d like to look at my garden?
Oh, yes, it’s right out there;
Somehow it doesn’t do well,
In spite of all my care.
The wind it blew down my bean-vine,
My radish it never grew,
The bugs they eat up my cabbage,
And my turnip and cucumber too.
(Padoy, run wash the dishes).