Eking a
living from the cruel sun baked land,
In a place where
God forgot to lend a hand,
Where ground was
hard with a vicious mind,
And corn was born
mealy & hugged with bind.
Born with the
shirt of the earth upon his back,
Where carted like
ass, grain within an old sack,
His arms hewn,
by the maker of flesh & stone,
His old legs were
boulders instead of fine bone.
He dug dew-spat
earth, with encrusted black nail,
He slopped out
swine & carried the goat milk pail,
From early dawn
to dusk, under sweat, dust & sun,
Searching the
skies for rain, where there was none.
The dust would
blow, so would the plague & pest,
But on he´d go,
sowing seeds in a dry blistered vest,
Praying to unheeding
ears, for a small drop of rain,
Just a tiny little
drop, to nurture his sad sorry grain.
Toiling hard,
with blistered hand & hot sweated brow,
Dreaming the prohibitive
dreams of owning a plough,
To be suited &
booted, a gentleman farmer for real,
He wondered, in
his dry field, how that would feel.
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