The Farmer
He sells his soul to tend the
earth
To make this crown within
my plate
Yet I am taught to hate this
man.
In rain or shine he strikes
his blow
To force my future life to
grow
Yet I am told to hate this
man.
He crawls for miles to feed
me fresh
Extorted yet he toils the
more
Yet I am asked to hate this
man.
With crude weapons he
makes his war
For me he waits upon the
rains
Yet I am forced to hate this
man.
Am ignorant peasant they
claim
Has not a place amongst the
saved
But which ought people best
pamper:
The golden egg or bird
which lays?
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