Farmer Brownshirt Poem by Allan Thorne

Farmer Brownshirt works in silence
with only the rustling wind in the corn
And the calling of birds in the trees
To intrude on his dark and roaring thoughts.

The potatoes are harvested
And winter beets are coming up.
When the world comes to an end
Farmer Brownshirt will hardly notice.

But in the mean time
It is heavy work, agrarian fascism,
Locked in a perpetual struggle
With the forces of vegetative anarchy
Trying to wrestle order out of this verdant chaos.


Only the productive can be allowed to live.
All that is old or weak or superfluous
Is pruned away, dug out, and discarded.
And the parasites, the parasites eliminated
Without mercy.

Farmer Brownshirt works tirelessly
With all his intelligence
And all his will
Toward the dawn of the new dark age
And the rise of the uber carrot.