Friday, November 17, 2006


Harvesting is damn hard work. Someone threw in a neck with a screwball, and we all knew body parts weren't allowed in the cart. A wrench fell on some one's head and we had to bring him to mortuary. Funerals slow us down every five minutes or so. Overhead, a beastly sun doesn't see us trying our hardest to work without rest. Behind us the hearse slowly creeps through the fields. Scarecrows are getting suspicious that they're next. Yeah, but it's rewarding. When the boss gives us tickets we eat delicious meals fixed by the cooks on roller skate wheels. Someone tried to put a disco here but it failed when square dancing took the nation by storm. Our hands are dirty and so are our thoughts. Stop licking that hammer, always heard by the crew chief. Then there's the girls and guys, who are crazy about field hands. Roll your coarse skin over me, honey, let me touch those scabs and burns. Except now the serf turnover means we earn less than ever, which is really never. It's almost November so the tool stores are loaded with W-D 40 and plenty of nails. That's what it's all about. Another boy fell face first into the mud, splattering the whole workforce. Excuse me, a father says near me, that was my son. I might just cry.


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