From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 63-64.
We view the farmer with alarm
Because he won’t stay on the farm.
He moves to town and there he lives,
While here and yon his flivver flivs,
And city papers wonder why
He thus neglects our food supply.
How can he tear himself away
From smells of flowers and new-mown hay?
I tracked one rustic to his flat
And begged of him, by this and that,
To answer if he felt no shame,
In spite of youth and stalwart frame
To quit thus cold the farming game.
“Nay, nay,” quoth he, “by ding and dang;
I suffer not a single pang.
The crops I sold went cheap as dirt,
I needed cash for baby’s shirt,
And for my wife’s — that is to say —
Though South Sea belles wear suits of hay,
My woman hates to dress that way.”
“But Bill,” says I, “all men are brothers,
You farmers ought to feed the others.”
“The world can feed itself,” he said,
And threw me out upon my head.
 Too husky he for me to fight,
And anyway the cuss was right.
Long laboring hours and meager gain
This rural exodus explain.