or…”Ode to a lovely field of mud.”
yonder pile of fetid mud,
so tender to the touch
contains the thatch remains
I must tend to very much.
I have no time for politics
no lengthy words or speech
my life is tied up with the mud
not in the words I’d preach.
Though I stand against the wicked sky
and stand against the rain
the filth remains my trusted friend
the place I will remain.
For I am just a man with plow
with furrowed face and ground
keeping busy on the Massa’s land
‘ere he come and mow me down.
with apologies again to those lovely white birds in the sky. I really don’t see them. I know they don’t really exist, because master has said they don’t exist. but…maybe I did hear one, yes, I am sure the ground shook….but there wasn’t a pilot, so…but it doesn’t exist, so I’ll just go back to my pile of mud and talk about the autonomous collective and who is in charge tomorrow….