Year Eight
A fool once took up farming
by a method in a book:
a sowing, reaping theory
failed each time undertook.
He spent no time in the fields
but went to the finest schools
all which taught that he knew better:
seasoned farmers were the fools.
He tilled the soil with division,
row on row with rhetoric.
Seeded each furrow with ashes,
planted stone, and planted stick.
Fertilized it all with fire.
Irrigated it with salt.
Smugly waited then for harvest,
just as the theory had taught.
So, happy birthday, O dear leader,
I've not now nor ever kneeled
to you, your rule, your legacy -
your scorched and salted field.
Know: the children and their children,
long past when we're both but bones,
will know you as the fool...
who planted ashes, sticks, and stones.
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