  My Dooley potatoes have bugs on their tops, Hard ones and soft ones that eat day and night; There is something the matter with all of my crops— A bug or a worm or a pest or a blight. My orchard of apples, in which I delight, Is a codling moth heaven—my cherries have slugs— O pity the farmer who works with his might— Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. The tomato worm crawls, the grasshopper hops, The aphid sucks juice, the rose chafers bite, The curculio stings till the little plum drops And the damage they do on the farm is a fright. In vain we seek help from the fellows who write Of "Production and Thrift"—intellectual mugs— The farmer must hustle and keep up the fight— Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. The bug on the farm with his appetite stops, When his "tummy" is filled he is ready for flight, But the Big Bugs who work in the law-making shops Are grabbing for all that is lying in sight. They have tariffs and tricks like good old "vested right" And the voter they lead by his long hairy lugs. They are the pests that I want to indict— Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. ENVOY. Prince, our exploiters, with insolent spite, Picture the farmers as mossbacks and thugs, But you, if you knew them, would pity their plight, Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. |
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