Detasseling. . .

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Sing in Me, Monsanto, God of the Corn
Of that man, skilled in all ways of detasseling.
The annoyed boy, tired and distressed for days on end.
After he was overcome by greed and money.
On the proud heights of the Iowa cornfields.

He saw the bus, the dreadful bus.
Of which he woke up to ride every morning.
Every morning of bitterness that he weathered,
Every hot exhaustive afternoon and pushed through.
In his deep corn-loving heart, he fought through the corn.
Only to make some extra cash, and buy and iPod. . .
But his own recklessness destroyed him--
Sun fed upon his skin, not lathered in sunblock.
The sun-burn tortured him every day.
The evil cuts from the sharp blades of the corn.
And the sweat, of which was seeping into them.
Burning, making him feel helpless.
The endless cornfields got to him
Never being able to see the end
Corn in every direction
OF this death-quest he survived
Never in a lifetime, shall he ever detassel again.





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