It's you, Eva Gabor
For whom I do my chores
You'll be the charmer on my farm
And the marm on my arm

We must never leave the farm
We must never leave the farm

City born, you're the candy in my corn
Without you, there aren't hotscakes every morn

And you'll gather chicken eggs
You'll pump water with your legs
You'll be the slopper of my sow
And a field for my plow

We must always milk the cow
We must always milk the cow

Babe deluxe, you're the herder of my ducks
Chasing gophers from the taters with a rake
Churning creamery in the urnery
For all the judges at the county fair
To taste

Get up at three thirty
To root in the ruts
For this I left the city
I think I taste sod
To you I drive my tractor
With you I hoe spuds

We may go a little nuts

Picking lima beans, pulling turnip greens
Inserting pecks of pickles into brine
What a sport, with the chickens you cavort
Plucking feathers for the pillows of your dreams
And mine

We talk on a party line

And you'll pasturize my peat
You'll squash boll weevils with your feet
You will never wilt or droop
And you'll make hot water soup

In bed by seven thirty
With you I crop share
For me you left the city
For you I breathe air

In Green Acres we are there