  They’re going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me; And Roger Jones, the janitor’s boy, is mad as he can be. That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair, The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger’s hair. ’Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see, And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me. We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall; We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all. But now they’ve ruined Roger’s plans, they’ve dug up all the lot; With all the brick and mortar round, you’d never know the spot. They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart; No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke my heart. We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow; The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow. With rusty cans and broken glass, we’d planned a home so nice; But they dumped their brick and mortar in our little paradise. They dumped their brick and mortar ’mid the smoky lakes of lime, Yet we won’t forget, ’twas Eden—Eden, once upon a time. Eden, where we dreamed supremely—rusty can and coffee pot; Eden, with the weeds and rubbish, in a vacant city lot. And now, we’re simply waiting, oh, that janitor’s boy and me, Until the janitor’s boy grows up and finds himself quite free To just discover areas where builders never go, Where we may live forever in a little bungalow. |
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