When the Frost Is on the Punkin

Traditional American folk, old-time country, warm rural Americana, lively acoustic guitar, clawhammer banjo, bright fiddle, upright bass, light hand claps, relaxed male baritone with a friendly storyteller delivery, authentic old-fashioned Midwestern American character, catchy singalong chorus, rustic autumn atmosphere, hints of bluegrass, natural acoustic recording, steady upbeat rhythm around 100 BPM, clear English vocals with gentle rural American accent, 3 to 4 minutes. Keep the mood cheerful, earthy, and nostalgic. No modern pop production, no heavy drums, no electric rock guitars, no exaggerated cartoon country accent. [Intro] [Acoustic guitar, lively banjo, warm fiddle] [Verse 1] When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. [Chorus] When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock, When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock! [Verse 2] They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here— Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. [Chorus] When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock, When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock! [Verse 3] The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!— O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! [Instrumental Break] [Bright fiddle melody, banjo picking, acoustic guitar] [Verse 4] Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME— I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! [Final Chorus] When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock, When the frost is on the punkin, And the fodder's in the shock! [Outro] [Warm fiddle and banjo fade out] When the frost is on the punkin... And the fodder's in the shock...