"Scare Crows don't work... it's 'cause they don't change." , nay-neighed the gift hoarsemen
~retired farmers, most of them.
The sunburned necks of the sweaty-ready boys can be found atop erupted mounds of mother earth,
fathered like yanked up turnips; all jaundice vegetables,
short-rooted 'n round with underdeveloped roll-ability.
Up 'n over compost slides, their rough hides become what any patriarchal tillman
would call "Cult-evaded Manhood".
Shaken free from their cerebral cores are the inedible greens
but that don't mean anything ripe enough to fall is on course.
Those berried nuts are still cow-less cowpokes, bare naked in their chaps, forever chafed.
In hindscythe, the grown-to-be sown support stick is a raked through manual;
an art piece on salt-lickin' yearlings 'n the annuals who loved them;
shaveable livestock is nevertheless shot as wooly girls are worthless, even naked and new
if you ask these young barn-tenders
who're too bored to resist flicking their bitches
because they're good at it...
jarred, though spoiled-meat metallics fly out of the mouths of babes
while ribbin' rodeo reporters make auditory men of the sun-baked sillies,
in other words, sensationalizin' the mockery of infinitely small beginnin's
while 'the press' themselves are sprouts from the same manure.
Woes 'n rows later, the soil finally dies
so then Farmer's Almanac - for the Trespassin' Golfer
rewrites the rule book, callin' it,
' My Ex ~ Caliber's Novel Tees'.
This 9 iron-y swingers' club will raise the new sweaty-readys
as next season's sand-pit ball fetchers.