Warm sun on well tilled soil, soon the weeds will make me toil.
Sprinkler pipe that I must move, listen to Rock to hitch my groove.
Plants will sprout beneath the sun, leaky pipe will make me run.
The hoe I swing. Weeds I chop. So we can have a happy crop.
My enemy want me to drop, they'd best give up 'cause I won't stop.
The swinging blade - The shiny steel
of my plows turning keel. Folds the earth where they would walk,
stills their tongue so they can't talk.
Feed my folk, their bellies full.
So strong mind, and arm, and spirit rule.
2 comments:
O fortunates nimium, sua si bona norint agricolas: Oh! blessed beyond all bliss are the farmers, if they but knew their happiness
Blessed and happy you are! (not trying to sound like Yoda, lol)
Yoda rocks! The force is with me.
May it be with you as well.
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