Fire up the thresher
it’s never sung swifter
your finger, the splinter
god loves us in grain.
Shame that the monger
was reborn a debtor
swore eyes to the plucker
the tanner, his brain.
Fret not—when older,
you’ll repay the piper
pull teeth at the altar
lay traps for the vain.
Now, to the thresher
who’s ever whirred crisper
a song for your mother
her bedclothes
the stain.
