THE RUBAIYAT OF A HARVEST STIFF
Awake! the Harvest Hand has found its might;
The Red Book Boys have put the Foe to flight:
And lo! a soft-pawed Sabo-Cat has caught
The "tight-wad" Boss who is no longer "tight."
For when the cock crew, as in days of yore
John Farmer hammered on the cowshed door;
"Come on, you Bums," yelled he, "and go to work."
"Back up," we said, "we've heard that noise before!"
"Get up!" he howled, "a thousand Bums each day
Beg me for work and never mention pay."
"Ah, yes, and when your dirty work is done
They pack their sweaty duds and fade away!
And those who harvested the golden grain
And toiled on through the summer heat and rain
Will live on "flop-house" charity and soup
Until you call them to your fields again.
You sometimes think men should not go to bed
But rather toil until the east is red,
Ah, you'd be happy if we served you thus,
And licked your boots for but a crust of bread."
Why should we toil till morning greets the skies
And let each farmer gouge our guts that tries;
We learned our lesson, and we learned it hard
Before we had the brains to organize.
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