Apparently The Squire lived a sheltered life; he’s never heard any of the good songs. A good while back, I was singing (I guess you can call it that) a little ditty that went this way:
Looking through the knothole in Father’s wooden leg,/Oh, who will wind the clock when I am gone?/Go get the ax; there’s a fly on Baby’s nose,/And a boy’s best friend is his mother.
He accused me of making it up.
A few days ago, he was helping me make Christmas cookies, and complained ~ rightly so ~ that the cat was in the way, winding back and forth underfoot.
Oh, they’re always in the way/The cows eat them for hay./ They hide the dirt on Grandpa’s shirt/Oh, they’re always in the way!
Again, he accused me of making up the whole thing. Now, mind you, he really does have a reason for feeling this way. Last week, El Condor Passa came on the radio, and I began to yodel. I’d rather have a quarter than dime/Oh, yes, I w-o-u-u-ld./ I’d rather have a Quarter than a dime/Just any t-i- m-e.
Yes, that’s one of my songs. As if you couldn’t tell.
thisendoftheswamp 
In the days before cars came with built-in electronics, my family amused ourselves on road trips by singing; a hodgepodge of Girl Scout campfire tunes, Irish drinking songs and old Civil War ditties. We were like the von Trapps, only less refined and not as talented.
The car I had when I was married to the Late and Unlamented didn’t have a radio (it didn’t have a heater or a reverse gear, for that matter!) and the girls and I sang all the time. Everything from “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” to hymns, including two of the little gems above.