Farmer John Speaks His Mind

May, 1917

Those fellows down in parliament Have kicked up such a fuss, That now we seem election bent To clean up all the muss. The Grits are sharpening their swords To give the Tories fits, While they, with scorching bitter words Denounce the faithless Grits.

All out of doors is fresh and green, But no more green than we Who help to run the Grit machine, Or bow the Tory knee. We hear the strident party call In words no one believes; The Liberals are traitors all, The Tories all are thieves.

The birds are singing in the trees, Old Summer's back at last, The lilacs scent the morning breeze, The crops are growing fast; Why should we leave these peaceful scenes, And don our vests and coats, To hear those chaps who spilled the beans Slangwhanging for our votes?

If we give heed to every tale Told when the campaign's hot, The Tories all should be in jail, The Grits should all be shot. Let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats, The politicians shun, Let's grow more beans and wheat and oats, And help defeat the Hun.