From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; p. 62.
HE FEEDS US ALL
The farmer’s tasks are never done;
He works two eight-hour days in one;
Till daylight-saving knocks him flat
By adding one more hour to that.
In certain years the crops won’t grow,
When they do well the price is low;
So raising little, naught, or much,
He’s very apt to get in Dutch.
And when I see him on the jump,
I sometimes think that he’s a chump
For raising food that loafers eat,
Whose pants wear only at the seat;
Then taking all the market’s chance,
Producing wool to patch those pants.
Of course, besides those lazy folk
Who sidestep every labor yoke,
He feeds some worthy people too,
Hard-working scouts like me and you.
If he should quit all things would slump;
I hope he still stays on the jump;
And I am filled with gratitude
For fifty-seven kinds of food.
Should need arise, so help me Pete,
I’d go and help him husk his wheat.