One hundred forty pounds he might have weighed
When he climbed aboard that old hay wagon
If he said that he weighed more than that
It was for sure that he would have been braggin’
The farmer liked to bale when it was wet
When it glistened with the morning dew
They were eighty pounds coming off that chute
Two a minute they rapidly came into his view
With a grunt, he tried to pick one up
Found that it was all that he could do
He dragged it to the back of the wagon
How to do more he had nary a clue
The other boys, they tried to help him
They would double up, take his turn too
His muscles were screaming, pleading for rest
Those monster bales he could do but few
No way could he begin to stack them
Farmer wanted them stacked at least five high
It might as well have been to the moon
As he plopped down with a dejected sigh
Another way of making some summertime money
Killing himself baling hay, it was out
When the farmer and wagon into the barnyard pulled
Collected his pay, “I quit”, came his shout
Tuesday, June 21, 2022