Farming Is Fun
farming is fun...
when the stomach
is full
and when there is plenty
of water to drink
and when the radio
is loaded
with new batteries
and when the weather is fine
and when the leaves
are grown enough to give shade
and...
when we are together...
farming is fun.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Related quotes
Were Coming In Loaded
(words & music by blackwell - scott)
Ooh yes were comin in loaded, ooh yes were comin in loaded
Ill hold the boat steady brother like a rock
Full speed a head until we hit the dock
Were heading for home, the fishing was great
Were comin in loaded cause were all out of bait
Well, well, well, well, well
Oh well now yeah!
We gottem packed to the water-line
Some got away but the catch was fine
Never saw such big ones, mman oh man,
Were comin in loaded just as fast as we can
Well, well, well, well, well
Oh well now yeah!
Im gonna see my baby soon as I get back
Knock on the door with my pockets packed
Shell look at me well she cant say no
Were comin in loaded so come on lets go
Well, well, well, well, well
Oh well now yeah!
Oh well now yeah!
Yeah! were comin in loaded
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stomach with food
Dont full
Fill your stomach...at
Food...
Stomach is
Full fill
The food...
Only at only
With waste of
Basket...
Making
At your stomach...
Drink...
Eat...
A llways
With your stomach
Limet... limet...
Healf stomach
Is good...
Bada full food
Eating...
Mothley once
ok...
Every day
Not better for
Your body health...
Diside to eat food...
Daily...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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I noticed that there are no B batteries. I think that's to avoid confusion, cause if there were you wouldn't know if someone was stuttering. 'Yes, hello I'd like some b-batteries.' 'What kind?' 'B-batteries.' 'What kind?' 'B-batteries!' and D-batteries that's hard for foreigners. 'Yes, I would like de batteries.'
quote by Demetri Martin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grandma Lenie Brand
As one of the pioneers in the Vryburg district
she lived with her husband Danie Brand
(a second cousin of late President Jan Brand
of the Orange Free State Republic)
on the farm Welgemeen.
When her husband passed away in 1938
grandma Lenie
took over the farming
and if work is a gift
she was really blessed in it
as she wielded a pickaxe
digging holes along with her sons
and the labourers
putting up fences, herded cattle
and still at fifty-six
milked cows,
if the workers did not turn up.
Today you would not expect this
of a fine woman,
who was really religious
farming by herself
in the years
just before the Second World War
and she was one of the esteemed
farmers in the Vryburg district
and she bought a Willis motorcar
and later a model t-Ford,
with which the family travelled to Vryburg
to do they’re shopping.
Grandma Lenie was known
for her philanthropy
and her willingness to help,
lived as if every day
was a deed of love,
was quite strict,
but also really fair
and still I remember
how she looked at me with shining eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Howard Blues
There is a federal election in just over a week in Australia. John Howard is the current PM....
I got the Howard blues
A’heavy on my mind
I got the Howard blues
So, heavy on my mind
And if he wins the next election
No sadder man you’ll find.
In this land of full employment
With real wages high
In this land of full employment
With real wages high
Why do the rich get richer
Than all us other guys?
In this time of record profits
It makes no sense to me
In this time of record profits
It makes no sense to me
We got a badly run health service
Like we’re in poverty.
We got farming dying
Like never once before
We got farming dying
Like never once before
But they waste so much water
Now they can’t do that no more.
We got a land that’s crumbling
Through past activities
We got a land that’s crumbling
Through past activities
Yet there down in Tasmania
We’re clearing old growth trees.
Why won’t that man say sorry
To Aborigines
Why won’t that man say sorry
To Aborigines
But he’ll say sorry at the cricket
When trying to get his seat.
I got the Howard blues
So heavy on my mind
I got the Howard blues
Yes, heavy on my mind
And if he wins the next election
No sadder man you’ll find.
poem by David Keig
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Your Captain
Your captain is your soldier of joy,
His description is like farming,
Any one of you live with him,
As your father occupied him,
As your mother welcomed himself.
And then money is straightened afterwards
To a concrete plan, and fetching water
Is again futile, in the well of shame,
Against the fire some water
That has shadows and play of a life.
Soldiers are welcome to change,
After their commanders fill the lane of difference.
poem by Naveed Akram
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From Mother To Daughter From Mother To Daughter.
Drink in some,
ice cold water little girl,
drink in some ice cold water,
some day you'll be big and strong,
but water will carry you all along.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
the day has been harsh to you,
the times are tough,
and getting rough,
but water will carry you though.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
although it's not getting easier,
refresh yourself,
from a nearby creek,
and maybe you'll see just what you need,
maybe water will show it to you.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
although you have grown much bigger,
you maybe be growing up strong and tall,
but water has carried you through.
Drink in some,
ice cold water little girl,
drink in some ice cold water,
some day you'll be big and strong,
but water will carry you all along.
poem by Sandra jacks
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Dad's Philanthropic Plan
I knew an old philanthropist, a farming man was he,
Shrewd at a deal, but still withal a man of charity.
He had three sons - three hefty lads - Josiah, Jim and Joe,
And each of these had his own land, and made a goodly show.
But still the farming methods of Josiah, Joe and Jim
Distressed their good old parent and disturbed the mind of him.
'These sons o' mine appear to be a sight too slow,' thought he
'They need a better class o' stock and more machinery.'
Wherefore this old philanthropist, this shrewd old farming man,
He sat him down and pondered long, and thus evolved a plan
A simple scheme, beneficent, and calculated so
That it would guard the interests of Josiah, Jim and Joe.
'I have acquired,' reflected he, 'a lot of tillage land
Much more than I can work; and my affairs get out of hand.
If I can but amalgamate their properties and mine,
And call the whole the Empire Farm, the prospect will be fine.
Then rose the good old farming man and called his sons around,
And thus his philanthropic scheme did earnestly expound:
'My sons, it grieves my heart to see you struggling on the land;
And I've decided, after thought, to lend a helping hand.
'You all have been good sons to me, and this is my great plan:
We shall amalgamate the farms and work them as one man.
But first you need machinery; your methods are too slow.
The cost of this will fall on you - Josiah, Jim and Joe.
'Josiah I'll allow to buy a good, upstanding team;
And Joe a separator, for there's coin in milk and cream;
To Jim I give permission - he's a fav'rite son o' mine
To buy a brand new harvester of up-to-date design.
'Josiah, he will feed the nags, and Joe can buy some cows
And these be privileges, mind, not ev'ry dad allows
While Jim can mind the harvester till harvest comes around,
When you can fetch it, with the nags, and work it on MY ground.
'And, as Joe's cows come into milk, he'll fetch 'em up to me,
'Long with the separator; I will work it - do you see?'
But, strange to say, they did not see - Josiah, Jim nor Joe.
They said rude things that plunged their parent into deepest woe.
They called him many ugly names, such as 'a mean old man';
And told him pretty plainly their opinion of his 'plan.'
'We'll buy our harvesters,' said they, 'and work 'em on our own;
And if you get hard-pressed - why, you can have 'em for a loan.'
The poor old farmer bowed his head. 'Ingratitude!' he cried,
'And after all I've done for you, my offer is denied!'
And dad, to-day, is forced to plough and harrow, dig and sow,
For they were most ungrateful sons, Josiah, Jim and Joe.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In The South Western Grampians
In the South Western Grampians of Victoria the Summer hills are brown
And from Casterton to Hamilton the roadway winds up and down
The creeks are barely flowing the roadside drains are dry
And the sun is brightly shining in the clear afternoon sky.
In the South Western Grampians the weather mostly fine
And many days of warm weather and beautiful sun shine
An undulating Countryside and hardly any green
With so few groves and woodlands and few trees to be seen.
Through the South Western Grampians one may travel far and wide
But one won't see many houses in that brown old Countryside
A farming population and few people one see
In the South Western Grampians far Inland from the sea.
On the hills of the South Western Grampians there once were many trees
Where the Indigenous tribes in the Dreamtime lived and had their Coroborees
But now open to the weather those old hills look brown and bare
And the only sound the buzzing of the bush flies in the warm Summer air.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Slum Dance
I go out of my way today
Just so I can dance the slum dance
With the poor people that live in the slum
Because they love to dance the slum dance
With other people
And they get very excited when they have other people
To dance the slum dance with
There is a fine weather in the sky
Where the slum is
Also in the slum there is no clean water to drink
But they have no choice rather than to drink the dirty water full of flies And mosquitoes
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Give The Radio Back
Hey teacher, what are you trying to do?
I'm getting tired of livin' in this zoo
You slap me in the face and you knock me down
You beat my head right in to the ground
I've never felt this way before
I can't take it no more
So give the radio back
Yeah, give the radio back
Give the radio back to the maniacs
Well, there's a party going on outside
All my friends got ya terrified
Don't call no cops or the state police
Don't break up this blown out symphony
You think I'm wasting all my precious time
You say my music oughta be a crime
Well, give the radio back
Give the radio back
Yeah, give the radio back to the maniacs
To the maniacs
I never ever felt this way before
Ain't gonna take it no more
Yeah, give the radio
Give the radio back
Give the radio back to the maniacs
To the maniacs
Yeah, give the radio to the maniacs
Give the radio to the maniacs
Give it, give it, give the radio
To the maniacs
The little maniacs, you're all maniacs
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When ego is fed…
Someone would remember me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would be grateful to me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would broadcast of me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would long for me:
My stomach goes full.
Whenever ego gets food,
The stomach is fed without food.
05.05.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Farming as we do it is hunting, and in the sea we act like barbarians.
quote by Jacques Yves Cousteau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farming implements are as cheap in Sydney as in England.
quote by Charles Sturt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing is conscience, scruple, and the farming of our ancestors.
quote by Edward Dahlberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Teach your descendants the two proper roads - literature and farming.
So organic farming practices are something that, to me, are interlinked with the idea of using biodiesel.
quote by Daryl Hannah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Who Rejects Christ
There's farmers and there's farmers,
There's many a field and field,
But none of the farmers round about
Can haul such harvest-wagons out
As I from an acre's yield.
There's plenty and plenty of farmers
That leave the ground by the fence,
Thinking it's nice if a patch of roses
Should scratch out the hay and tickle their noses
With nice little wild-rose scents.
I'm not like other farmers,
I make my farming pay;
I never go in for sentiment,
And seeing that roses yield no rent
I cut the stuff away.
A very good thing for farmers
If they would learn my way;
For crops are all that a good field grows,
And nothing is worse than a sniff of rose
In the good strong smell of hay.
poem by John Crowe Ransom
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