Farage would fit right in.

Farage would fit right in.

If there is such a thing

As good honest sweat

It drips from the brow

Of a free man pulling his own plough

Tilling the land for the sake

Of his family

Willing himself to be true

To his own belief

In the purity of love

When the earth is dry

Littered with stone

Broken hands cut clean through

To the bone

Slaking his thirst

With a memory

Of a kiss on the cheek

Every morning

Before the day begins

Sheltering under the noon day sun

Beneath a leafless tree

Listening for thunder

Waiting for rain

Praying to be heard

A thought too absurd

For him to ignore

When he has done it before

Changing nothing

But the opinion

He has of himself

There is no shortcut

To oblivion

Everyday is his penance

Tied to the yoke

Until the day he dies

No matter how hard he tries

It is the way of the land

It is not his

To own

But to prepare

For the next generation

Plant the seed

And to believe

The rains will come

With the gift of new life

And a good harvest

Will bring him salvation