At least, I hope so, because I sing show tunes in the garden.
Sometimes I switch up the words so the song is appropriate to the moment:
Oh what a beautiful eggplant!
Oh what a beautiful bean.
I’ve got a wonderful feeling
I’m going to eat like a queen.
I sing to the chickens and goats, too, though they prefer folk songs.
Oh my chickens, oh my chickens,
Oh my darlin’ little birds.
You’re revolting, you’re disgusting,
You’re obnoxious little turds.
I don’t know if any of my charges like it. I don’t believe that my singing will actually make my plants grow better. But when I’m pulling stubborn weeds, mucking out the chicken house, or trimming goat hooves, I can either grumble or sing. I choose to sing.