THEY say somewhere in the distance fair, <br />Is the town of Nothing-to-Do, <br />Where the sun, they say, shines every day <br />And the skies are always blue; <br />Where no one tries for a silver prize <br />And no one strives for gold, <br />There, every race has taken place, <br />And every tale been told. <br /> <br />The blacksmith sings as his anvil rings <br />Of the town of Nothing-to-Do, <br />And vows in his song, though the road is long <br />When with anvil and forge he's through <br />He will wander far, where the glad folks are, <br />And will rest in that happy town; <br />He dreams of the day when he'll put for aye <br />His apron and hammer down. <br /> <br />O, it matters not what the toiler's lot, <br />Be he preacher or soldier brave, <br />Though he delve a ditch, be he great or rich, <br />Be judge or a statesman grave, <br />He dreams always of the future days <br />When he'll go to Nothing-to-Do, <br />When he's faced life's test, and his hands will rest <br />And his time of toil is through. <br /> <br />But Nothing-to-Do, folks tell me, who <br />Have journeyed the hills and found it, <br />Is a hollow fake and a big mistake, <br />For the streams of care surround it. <br />And the people there, they all declare, <br />Are gloomy and sad and sighing, <br />And they yearn for strife, for the joy of life <br />Is something to do worth trying.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-town-of-nothing-to-do/
