The Emhattled Far,Mers

The Emhattled Farmers
25510

There’s an army on the murch,
Which plies neither word nor torch;
No flags or banners mark the troopers’ way
There are times it fights by night,
Then again in broad daylight,
And the farmer is its special plek and prey

Armed with suckers, benka and wings,
With breech-loading probes and stings-
This-army never gets its powder wet
Bat pyrethrum, Paris green,
London purple, keroseng
Is the stuff to do it up with you can bet
-Albert Stayman