The sun is bearing down upon your shade,
wearing brown the skin of crops you’ve made,
ain’t the way they say a man gets paid
farming from Washington D.C.
The sky is white on the other side of dust,
the tractor’s paint has given into rust,
you pray much less than you have cussed
farming from Washington D.C.
You believe in rain before your God
to fill the furrows cut deep into your sod—
old flesh follows seasons—on you plod
farming from Washington D.C.
The song you hear rattles in your head,
in the movies played when you fall to bed:
who will feed the town when you are dead
farming from Washington D.C.?
drycrikjournal 