A Butterfly Farm

                                         (“England has a butterfly farm” – News Item)

O, would I could dawdle the hours away,

     And save the strength of my arm,

By tilling the soil without any toil

     Upon a butterfly farm.

No rocks to dig out and cart away,

     Nothing but rest and charm;

No acres to hoe and no meadows to mow

     Upon a butterfly farm.

Gee Whizz! I wasted my energy

     As well as my early years;

I crippled my bones with stumps and with stones,

     And chasing unruly steers.

I milked at dawn and milked at dark,

     With a tired and horny palm,

When I should have rolled in a hammock of gold

     Upon a butterfly farm.

Of course, on the farm where I labored in vain

     The butter flew more or less;

But ‘twas labor to churn, and I never could turn

     Out a respectable mess.

Alas, and alack! Could I only turn back

     And give up my good right arm

To the raising of wings and beautiful things

     Upon a butterfly farm!

June 2, ‘10