There is a farmer on our block
who smokes a pipe all day.
The rumor is he’s unemployed,
least that’s what the neighbors say.

See there, he’s sitting on his porch,
he smiles so sweet and slow.
My mother says to stay away,
“After all, you never know”.

But the farmer is a friend of mine,
he bounces me on his knee.
He tells me about his farm that’s near,
But I can never see.

Now the farmer’s farm is very special
that’s clearly understood.
The people at his market rave,
tell him his crops are good.

Well the farmer farmed and I grew up,
he never worked all day.
He’d rock in his chair, smoke his pipe,
stare in the most unusual way.

Hey, there’s the farmer in the street,
“They’re taking him downtown”.
His basement acres are carried out,
piled up in a mound.


The farmer smiled, waved goodbye,
as they put him in the wagon.
His farm I see, as I never should,
is burned by a portable dragon.

There was a farmer on our block
who read no metaphysics.
He leisurely lived, leisurely died,
leisurely loved his critics.
Lil bit of 60's fairy tale.