Poetry: Farmer

The world is a farm,
And we are the cattle.
And with his gilded arm,
The farmer takes to battle.

He gives us our feed,
Conditioning our lives,
For his own personal greed,
On which he thrives.

There is no room for creativity,
In the tiny pen.
Too much inactivity,
Controlled by the Cowmen.

And if a cow was to think,
And say hang on just a minute.
The farmer would not blink,
As he watched the killing bullet.

And so out of fear,
The cows sit tight,
They do not steer,
For horror and fright.

But if the cows were brave,
And abandoned ignorance.
Then the farmer would cave,
As the storm has its vengeance.

  • Strega

    Nice, Connor