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.
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Write Field column is written by David Kragnes. David farms near Felton, MN. He is a former Chairman of American Crystal Sugar Co., and currently serves on the board of directors of CoBank.
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