African Farmer

What help is there
For this mortal coil,
Caught in life's web
Of sweat, tears and toil,
Trying to live off
Some dried up soil,
Those barren lands,
Plowed by tired hands,
With most cash gone,
These mortgaged lands
Are mostly owned by banks,
Our family had this old farm
For many a generation,
This shrinking food basket
Of a declining nation,
Maybe we can emigrate
To this great America
And leave tired, old Africa,
For in tales of old,
By wise men it's told
American streets
Are lined with gold...

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2007 Alfred Charasz