The farmer and his hands
His family and his crops
Tending to his lands
'Neath gentle water drops
Bereft of all worries
He works from night to day
Back and forth he hurries
Feet to mud and clay
When his jobs are done
He donates fruits of labors
To each and everyone
To town and to his neighbors
While gray and clouded skies
Beckon forth more rain
He's in his fields of rye
Harvesting the grain
He cares not for himself
Before his fellow mate
Putting food on shelf
And dinner on the plate
The callused sturdy hands
The strong and warming heart
He loves his own homeland
And farming is his art