The Farm
A sharecropper dyed
A guano sack black
Wore as tunic,
Pretended he was Hamlet.
He recited his soliloquy
To the tassels on new ears of corn.
The hand clapping
From the men
Sprawled around an oak
Was not for him,
But for the short man
Who brought short pints
Of whiskey.
The drunkards sang
Joyous songs to the houseflies.
The landowner tried
To sober up the preacher
So could he preach
A sermon on the evils
Of the theatre and drink,
And the salvation of working
On his farm.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Ken Again
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