For my father was a farmer, an' "All fame," he said, "ain't reel;
An' the same it isn't fillin' when you're wantin' for a meal."
So I'm followin' his footsteps, an' a-keepin' of my feet,
While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.
Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat
By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat,
Then I comes tip bright an' grinnin' with the knowledge that I'm winnin',
With the rhythm of my harvester an' Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.
Readin' things an' heedin' things that clever fellers give,
An' ponderin' an' wonderin' why we was meant to live—
Muddlin' through an' fuddlin' through philosophy an' such
Is a game I never took to, an' it doesn't matter much.
For my father was a farmer, as I might 'a' said before,
An' the sum of his philosophy was, "Grow a little more.
For growin' things," my father said, "it makes life sort o' sweet
An' your conscience never swats you if your game is growin' wheat."
Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat!
An' you're servin' , an' deservin' of a velvet-cushion seat
In the cocky-farmers' heaven when you come to throw a seven;
An' your password at the portal will be, "Wheat, Wheat, Wheat."
