Born on the prairie raised on a farm
chickens pecking in the dirt
hogs slopping in the mud
the smell of peaches as the wind
moves through the orchard
I am an automatic okie
The barn door squeaking
banging, banging, banging
no rhythm to the sound
just predictable - as the sun
coming up early in the morning
sweat begins to pour as
we do our chores
automatic okies
Wildflowers growing and
bowing to the wind
sweet smell of prarie grass
and a whistle from a bob-white
heard now and then makes me
proud to be an automatic okie.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem