The Little Old Farmer

The weathered Farm House,

With it’s rusted handles,

And discolored walls,

Could sense the change in,

The little old farmer.

No more pale parsnips,

That were big and hearty,

Were ever harvested any more,

To be sold or help feed,

The little old farmer.

His loneliness loomed for years,

Isolation growing after the death of his wife,

At his final straw because,

No one cares for,

The little old farmer.