yonder pile of fetid mud,
so tender to the touch
contains the thatch remains
I must tend to very much.
I have no time for politics
no lengthy words or speech
my life is tied up with the mud
not in the words I’d preach.
Though I stand against the wicked sky
and stand against the rain
the filth remains my trusted friend
the place I will remain.
For I am just a man with plow
with furrowed face and ground
keeping busy on the landlord's land
‘ere he come and mow me down.
No comments:
Post a Comment