I’ve fixed up almost everything
    This winter in my shop.
I’ve repaired and rebearinged
    From the bottom to the top.

The tractors are back in the shed
     With fresh wax on the hood.
All in all, my schedule’s really
    Looking pretty good.

I ordered all my chemicals.
    I prebought all my seed.
I even made a list to check off
    All that I would need.

But there was a crucial error
    On the list up near the top.
Should have been extensive help
    For that wreck that’s in my shop.

Leaning up behind the door
    Cloaked in rust and dirt,
Stands that evil farm contraption,
    Intent to make thumbs hurt.

That vicious one-legged monster,
    That the devil built in rage --
And turned loose on farmers,
    Their religion for to gauge.

This ungainly apparition
    Can break your jaw or wrist,
Crush kneecaps into powder
    Or give your back a twist.

I know all farmers have one,
    But they’ll hide it if they can.
By now you must have guessed it:
    I mean their Handyman.

They’re mostly bent and rusty,
    But they hardly ever die.
Though I mowed ours with the
Bushhog once
    And made my father cry.

I think that is the only time
    I’ve seen one bought brand new.
But they stock them at the farm store,
    So they must sell at least a few.

Most every one I’ve ever seen
    Lay in a pickup bed,
’Tween the tow chains and tire iron,
    Like road kill you found dead.

Just waiting there riding ’round,
    In its sweet repose.
’Til it gets to drop some-something
    On some-someone’s toes.

I must tell you before I go,
    It shook me to my socks:
I saw a mounted Handyman
    On a pickup’s new toolbox.

It was painted up to match
   The pickup’s two-tone blue.
The only thing I can say:
  That guy needs more to do.