The Peasant Suspense

In his weary hour The legumes blossom on time; Out of jocundity in honour Of the beautiful turf The drowsy peasant peak. His weird blistered palm blimey, His nasty regalia wretched, He produces plenty and eats small He produces good and eats bad To the nobles he worked, The dark noxious pest Ravage and wrest The peasant-shaddock This tonic the dressy peasant A nocturnal haunter. This extempore task Demoralizes his sinew His swansong Rhythmically envelops In serenity and drone. Each rising smoke Nervous him to move. This previous eyes That know no peace By the smiling scorching sun. At the dark hour He puts on his clogs And marched to the farm shack There he finds the beetles On the yam. The great anxiety of the peasant Is the bragging fire of winter He fasted to lull it He became gaunt The sturdy peasant. The time unknown: the blazing fire Burnt the bedecked bower The ranch house and the lettuce Barefooted staggered him To the farm with his straw hat And met the yelling ashes The cracking twigs of cocoa plant The peasant live no day Longer than that and slept