the Producer’s return

land was rich, fertile was mud, the buyers were free with their clamshells

the horse need no hitch, the ground not no blood, a bounty of flowers blessed the landfills

The celery was pure, the gourds poundt the sky, the streams they were lined with pure water

The food so nutritious, the crop beyond count, a family could birth many daughter

And then came the knock, just a horsehoof fine friendly, a messenger with a smile and salute

he appraised high their stock, said enjoy it unendly, but his task was to take back some fruit.

For his was a skipper who’d launched every fleet, his a proprietor fully.

He’d come for a share of what that man had leased, and he did so with no hint of sully

He asked them no burden too greatly to bear, just a sample of honor for what had been give.

Yet, they sought out the matter, consulting strange air, and decided the page should not live.

He’d done them no wrong, his mission was true, he’d postured no wile in his voice.

But lust for the good earth had run them all through, and to silence his plea was their noise.

So gathered that farmer, and mottled that lot, who had otherwise turned a good profit,

and the weather grew warmer, as they tore out his snot, and threw down the life of that prophet.

You never would know it, for virtue had blanketed, all there the fields of their grainyard

but dark rosy things filled the glass where they banqueted, and defiance hummed forth there, the main word.

But who’d planted that note, in those fields ripe for gratitude, who’d appled that orchard so darkly?

That was the question which could meet with no platitude, as the Skipper an armada embarked He.