After this short one day interlude
I'll conclude there's lots of latitude
to relate this tale of excrement
falling from places as punishment
for being in a place at the wrong time.
I'll continue with the time I earned a dime
for each pile of cow manure I'd load,
then spread like an a la mode
topping which we used to enrich the fields,
increase fertility, therefore improve yields.
I liked this job more than picking potato bugs
at a nickel a hundred that I'd stuff in jugs.
That was Ma's idea of an incentive project.
Fortunately, I had the opportunity to select
one of the two, so if I had a job to do,
I'd take pitching forks full of barnyard pew.
Now, to a farmboy that isn't such a bad job,
except when it's soft, it oozes like blob
right through the tines of your fork,
splatters on your pants, smell like a dork!
The box on our honey wagon was short,
therefore just big enough to transport
lots of loads to earn coins at ten cents per;
To think, I was the King of Hauling Manure!
But problems arose: beaters on the rear
spread the load when I put 'er in gear,
but when the wind's just right, (don't think it queer)
that "stuff" blew ahead to adhere to my ear,
the back of my neck, my cap, and my shirt.
Oh, the things I did to fertilize that dirt!
The wife doesn't much like this storee,
but there's more coming up in Part Number Three.
