"Old McDonald Had A Farm"


Old McDonald had a farm
he mowed as gospel after dark.
Alone – a fossil – past the mark
He sowed his crops with crass regard.
In fact, he hardly slept a wink,
the man took charge of everything!
The hens, the pigs, the melancholy
kept him busy in head and body.
He never lobbied cries for help,
He’d get the jobs done by himself.
The pride he felt, he’d honestly say,
was a prize excelling monetary gain.
With no prodigy waiting or son of his own
to have gone & replaced him or took up the role
he studied the process of making a will
that covered his golden acres of field.
The place he had built was more than a business
with horses and chickens or adorable piglets
So all he envisaged in his passing at death
was being staunchly committed to his animal friends.
His Father had him a hen, from what we’re told,
that lavished them eggs of solid gold!
Its produce sold at a rate that alarmed
‘til he got his goal and paid for a farm.
That day was the start of a marvellous run
upto a changing of guard from father to son.
Eggs weren’t harder to come by, the hen was just fine,
but with no partner to bolster the hereditary line
the end was in sight - hence he drew up a will -
put pen to it right then to see his duty fulfilled.
A suitable tyro was the target post-haste
the pupil would be owner of his farming estate.
Old Mac garnered the papers approved by his brief,
and marched through his acreage hugely relieved!
Renewed with a feeling that filled up his chest
he duly proceeded with the will that he’d left.
His diligence led him to read through it all,
& a final signature meant that his dream was assured!
.
.
.
But on seeing a clause, Lord Tenterden ordered
The hen Mac deeply adored was exempt in the small print.
A sentence recording ownership of all animals listed
had no mention of poultry, hens had been omitted!
Old Mac’s non-specifics would prove costly indeed,
once they passed his novitiate the plot that he’d leave.
The immoderate upkeep of maintaining the farm
was beyond disbelief, so he gave up its barns,
Traded its heartland rather than hope for survival,
The acres we’re halved up and sold to a rival.
It’s new owners were spiteful, savvy, marketing sorts
who kept hold of the title of the man who started it all.
It seemed heartless to call it that after they put nothing in it,
But that’s all part of the boardroom -
The subtle difference between love and business.


Enjoy your fucking chicken.



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