FIFES AND DRUMS
127
The world is shy of ships beside. It spills grain in the sea.
The answer's wider acreage. The farmer'll do his share.
If you want to beat those butchers of babies in the air
You'll tell your wife's relations and the uncles of your aunt
And your seventh cousin twice removed to "Plant, Plant, Plant!"
Now I have a gift for gardens and I've dug my trenches there.
I've planted seeds instead of shells and made the neighbors stare.
I've ranged my ranks of carrots, and beets, and beans, and peas,
With pinks and roses round the sides as pretty as you please.
