THE FIELDS ARE
NEVER FALLOW
NEVER FALLOW
When the weasel comes to the fenceline any farmer
worth his salt knows it's already too late. Grab
the pitchfork, and run to the haymow. Now!
Only the great goddess Ceres really knows my
name - her daughter Prosperina and I have come
to terms. I loved her mother, and then I loved her.
-
The fields are never fallow - things are growing
and we have to count yields for the stupid Emperor.
His men come by with staves and pitchforks to oversee
our loads - jerks, oafs and overseers, all as one.
-
I pledge allegiance to no one, and they seem to know
this. I tell them, centuries hence, a land will come
where men can live freely, do as they wish, prosper
for themselves and exist like their own Gods. They
scoff. They scoff and say there will always be rulers
and emperors, the rulers and emperors will never
let go but will just change their tactics.
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