40
Thy farmer plowed his field all very long day.
Till the sun sets and the birds do not crow.
The soil is dry no more then the hay.
He plows the field sun to moon to neat rows.
This was the start till he found his forepart.
This farmer rogue was not always a plower,
but as a child he more favored art. He could even draw the most beautiful flower.
Till the day when he thought where flows do grow.
He looks at the ground to see what is down.
The problem had been theres to much overgrown.
An innocence lost to a ground unsown.
A petty virtue that can not be grown.
He plowed his field till his art may stop That must be the price for tending his crop.
Till the sun sets and the birds do not crow.
The soil is dry no more then the hay.
He plows the field sun to moon to neat rows.
This was the start till he found his forepart.
This farmer rogue was not always a plower,
but as a child he more favored art. He could even draw the most beautiful flower.
Till the day when he thought where flows do grow.
He looks at the ground to see what is down.
The problem had been theres to much overgrown.
An innocence lost to a ground unsown.
A petty virtue that can not be grown.
He plowed his field till his art may stop That must be the price for tending his crop.
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