Читать книгу Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture - Палмер Кокс - Страница 9

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I want to be a farmer

And with the farmers stand—

A whetstone in my pocket,

A blister on my hand.

I sing to be a farmer,

Without the right of way

Across my neighbor’s lot to drive

My ox-cart or my sleigh.

I long to be a farmer

And own a breachy mare,

That oft will leap the bound’ry line,

And make my neighbors swear.

I pine to be a farmer

And own a kicking steer,

That I may feel his horny heel

Whenever I draw near.

I sigh to be a farmer

And plant my field of corn,

That crows may flock and pull it up

Before the streak of morn.

I shout to be a farmer:

How much I would adore

To drive a big and stubborn pig

Some five miles or more.