They'd lived on the flats, humdrum home in a prosaic town. Those gabled edifices perched on hilltops Beyond their means, perhaps, But certainly beyond their needs; Their children had cribbed at the foot of their bed To the detriment of sleep and other night-time activities, And they'd later shared a room, learning early on That life was often a make-do vocation, But could be rife with joys in spite of that. The kids moved on, to mirth and mortgages of their own, Their parents resolute in their desire to stay put, Eschewing the siren song of some trailer court in Sarasota, Some gator-patrolled condo in St. Pete, Choosing to confront the seemingly never-ending residue Of stubborn low pressure systems Lugubriously wandering up the St. Lawrence valley For weeks upon end, The humidity and mosquito-laced all too brief summers (Though, on those nights where no pop-up thunderstorm Threatened to chase them back inside, They would sit on the porch, peering at the gravelly old hills, And he would whistle some tune from some long ago, Perhaps pulling her out of her chair, Dancing a slow and somewhat unsteady waltz While he did his damnedest to stay on key.)
As an aside, the Dakota Staton version of the titular tune is the definitive version, and I'll brook no argument otherwise.