Potatoes and a Penny Whistle

My hands are empty,

And the land won’t grow.

I find nothing to reap

Among the acres I’ve sown.
Bushels of barren

And barrels of naught,

Is this the feast coming

From all I have wrought?
The season is turning,

The ground hardened beneath

To the cries of the wretched

And the sodden berieved.
Must we suffer the hunger,

This bitter divide,

Between fields filled with plenty

Where the sated reside?
My gut screams, revolt!

Even dirt must resist

The aweful plowing by strangers;

Do more than subsist.
Cast away mounds

Built on sorrow and sythe,

Untether the roots

That sicken and bind.
Go wayward and wander,

Cast my soul to the seas,

Toward luck or misfortune,

The penniless free.
With a tune and a whistle,

Let the fair winds resolve

The heartache of famine–

Send me where I belong.

–C. Green

(Ballad in D Dorian)

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