With strength and courge

and a furrowed brow,

the old man picked up his rusty plow.

He walked out to the field

bent down, kneeled,

and prayed before begining.

He prayed for past days,

the ones withered away.

He prayed he was far from his dying day.

But once in the field,

he never did yield

to the task he was set to do.

Once he was done

in the blistering sun

and his shadow was long and thin,

he took back to his house

where he sat with a bottle of gin.