The farmer is free in this country of ours;
He is free to labor long, dreary hours,
Producing the food for the millions to eat;
Free to wear patches on his worn trousers’ seat.
He is free to mortgage his livestock and land;
Free to pay toll to a bold pirate band,
Who garner their profits from farmers’ hard toil;
Though they never tilled a foot of the soil.
He’s free to support by his vote, some slick guy,
Whose promise of friendship for him, is a lie;
Who, though elected by farmers, has sold
The farmers outright for the plutocrats’ gold.
This freedom of which the free farmer is proud,
When met by the dealers, is thoroughly cowed;
Is lost like the water that runs through a sieve;
He pays what they ask, and he takes what they give.
But the farmer is free; O, Yes Sir, indeed;
Free to be mulched by this plutocrats’ greed;
Free to deprive his dear children and wife,
Through his indifference, of the conforts of life.
The farmer according to our wise (?) laws’ intent,
Is free to pay interest, taxes and rent;
His is free to believe this food gamblers’ lies;
Free to stand clear, when his friends organize.