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The Farmer | Jeffrey McDaniel
There’s a field where I grow only bruises,
inner gnawing, and heartache.
Each Saturday I harvest the crop,
haul it to the open-air market, and sell it
straight from my flatbed truck.
Fresh agony only three bucks a bushel.
Sun-dried torment by the pound.
Seven years running, my pain
has been voted best in the region,
and while I’m not wealthy,
in my own small way,
I help keep the village alive.
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