Sing sweetly, sap, and
Sickening,
Out here among the flowers.
Eyes to the sky,
Filled like a pie,
Where crows and locusts
Glower.
Now swooping down,
These morbid clowns
Do set upon a shower
Of buckwheat, rye, and corn flowers
All grain gone,
Work of hours.
Now eyes awake
With sweating palms
The farmer loses sleep
And paranoid of living storms
That do his harvest
Reap.
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