I'd spent so many summers on my uncle's farm <br />and loved to feel the roots of rightful, old tradition. <br />Our day began when Mr. Sandman passed and the alarm <br />was getting ready to convey programmed decision <br />to him, my rival brother and myself at 1/2 past three. <br /> <br />We did the chores involving the menagerie <br />of cows and pigs and horses, chickens, geese. <br />Who all had spent the night to manufacture and then drop <br />their multicoloured excrements up to their knees. <br />We laboured, mucking with enthusiasm and non-stop. <br /> <br />Sucking the morning's freshest, slightly soiled warm egg <br />before the real breakfast of much hearty nature beckoned, <br />fresh cream drawn from the silver separator keg <br />and ham and sausages, fatback, we always reckoned, <br />that, if the Life of Reilly needed new inventing <br />it would be found with ease on our favourite farm. <br />And. come to think of it, bet anyone, the devil, on repenting <br />his evil life, would gladly, happily fall for the charm <br />of country life in nineteenfifty, when the world was good, <br />when greed had stayed in castles and in Roman spires, <br />when man was kind to man and knew he would <br />be well and happy, healthy, free to sire <br />enduring decency in future generations. <br />And those, my friend, those were the days, <br />when basic goodness never rested on sensations <br />of goods and services and prostituting yeahs and nays.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/young-farmers/
