Paradise for Sale
by Ogden Nash

Had I the shillings, pounds and pence,
I’d pull up stakes and hie me hence,
I’d buy that small mixed farm in Dorset
Which has an inglenook and faucet–
Kiddles Farm, Piddletrenthide,
In the valley of the River Piddle.

I’d quit these vehement environs
Of diesel fumes and horn and sirens,
This manic, fulminating ruction
Of demolition and construction
For Kiddles Farm, Piddletrenthide,
In the valley of the River Piddle.

yes, quit for quietude seraphic
Con Edison’s embrangled traffic,
To sit reflecting that the skylark,
Which once was Shelley’s now is my lark,
At Kiddles Farm, Piddletrenthide,
In the valley of the River Piddle.

I’m sure the gods could not but bless
The man who lives at that address,
And revenue agents would wash their hands
And cease to forward their demands
To Kiddle Farm, Piddletrenthide,
In the valley of the River Piddle.

Oh, the fiddles I’d fiddle,
The riddles I’d riddle,
The skittles I’d scatter,
The winks I would tiddle!
Then, hey diddle diddle diddle!
I’ll jump from the griddle
And live out my days
To the end from the middle
On Kiddles Farm, Piddletrenthide
In the valley of the River Piddle.