They punch us in and punch us out,
They fold, spindle, and mutilate us,
And when we cuss they pitch a fuss
About our political incorrectness.
Against the clock we sweat and toil
While they frail and lash against us,
And in the end we inherit the soil
For a pound of microwaved potatoes.
Measure men not by the things we're not
Nor by the ancient ancestors within.
For despite our trials and tribulations,
Nature will out in the end.
If we must be blind all the time,
In this world we live and work in,
We'll see the woman and not the flower
Created by God in His might.
So measure me now if you can,
By the soul of the beast herein,
Plant me in my six feet of soil
And pass around the microwaved potatoes.
Pitch a fuss and give us a cussin'
For we surely do deserve it.
But don't say much when in the end
There's no gravy on your microwaved potatoes.
Across the trail a sunbeam breaks
And loiters here by me,
Tumbling down through stately oaks,
A golden mystery.
Just ahead the forest wakes,
To greet the frosty morn,
On high a squirrel cautions me
With bark of righteous scorn.
God, I love this forest
With river flowing nigh,
With golden oaks and woodland folks
Watching over such as I.
Beyond the window winter rakes
Frozen nails of icy scorn
Over barren field and frozen lake
And pounds against the barn.
Through the pane I watch the show
Of howling wind and crystal flakes
As shifting snowdrifts start to grow,
Smothering firewood and old fence rows.
Near golden plate of scrambled eggs
Hot piping coffee sits and begs
Me not to come to the kitchen late
As yet another day is born.
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