I wrote a poem with my favorite seven syllable line a couple of years ago that I think hits the mark. A more modern thinker would probably say, "baloney!"
Farmers sold their old work teams
and bought tractors. Horse power
ate up too many bushels
of feed, the reasoning went.
So the sorrels, chestnuts, bays
and greys pulled their last wagons
loaded with forksful of hay,
piled high and wide. Their leather
harnesses dry stiff like boards
and the one-row machines turn
rust in the trees. - Salesmanship
supercedes old craftsmanship,
so we buy what we don't need,
then pay more than it's worth. Yes,
horsepower still pulls the plow
and drinks deeply from their tanks,
but how many bushels it
takes to feed these brutes? Answer:
I don't know. Maybe bankers
punch keys on money machines
to figure the high cost we've
paid. What worth are deserted
towns? Or a school bused away
to consolidate? A bell
on a church that no longer
chimes? - While the calculator
adds up (but mostly subtracts)
another farm expanded.
I quote: "I have to farm more
so I can pay for that big
John Deere tractor I just bought."
