Here come the Lesbian Farmers who we love,
Stomping home from the fields, damp and very hot,
For how else should they be, their farms like stoves,
And critters, machines, tall beans, even doves
Stealing the cool air? Farms are really Hell
Don’t kid yourself, agronomy’s pure Sisyphus,
That’s the way it is, repetitious, it smells,
There’s no time for love poems! There ain’t no Sappho-mus!