I was riding my horse, that’s where I was,
Why was I riding? Just because, because
It was a summer’s day, ever so fine,
Riding that most beautiful horse of mine.
We cantered up hill, and trotted downdale,
The beauty of the countryside never did fail,
To make me gasp, with appreciative awe!
The most wonderful vista you ever saw,
We came right up to farmer Joe’s fence,
There he was, in his paddock, looking immense.
If anyone could put a blight on the morning
It would be him, and with no warning.

A grumpy old coot of massive size.
Those avoiding him were thought to be wise.
Farmer Joe called out with consummate ease,
“Stay away from my fence, if you do please!”
“I don’t like visitors, they leave a mess,”
“And I like trespassers even less!”
“I always keep my shotgun very handy,”
“To discourage interlopers, like you, you dandy.”
“So, unless you’re busting to be shot in the arse,”
“I suggest you about face and chew some grass.”
“Yes, get your horse’s hooves to kick up some sod,”
“And make tracks away, you stupid clod.”

Well, can you imagine someone being more rude?
Inhospitable, displaying attitude crude?
We turned on our heel, and rode away,
Determining to leave, and away to stay.
But I could not resist writing a letter,
Not to score points, or make one better,
But to point out to him his status as miserable sod,
And to keep him in no doubt, as to his being a clod.
Farmer Joe responded in kind,
Suggesting that I had lost my mind.
I could then see that such exchanges would achieve nought,
So I decided to arrange a quite different sport.

On Farmer Joe’s behalf I invited the ladies C.W.A.,
To Farmer Joe’s house, to spend the day.
This included lunch, with all the trimmings,
And plenty of wine, to overflow brimmings.
“No need to R.S.V.P. Just turn up,”
“And of good cheer, we’ll enjoy a cup.”

The day for such festivity did arrive.
And a mini-bus carried the ladies up Farmer Joe’s drive.
Farmer Joe carried his shotgun to the front porch.
His raised temperature enough to scorch!
“What the tarnation are you doing here!”
“We’ve come to take luncheon, with you, my dear.”
Of course, this was enough to make him explode,
“You’d better get back in your bus, and hit the road!”
These ladies were all sensitive souls,
Not used to being screamed at by ghouls.
Their spokesperson, one Emma Buttercup,
“You invited us, and here we are, with you to sup.”
“That is to say, have luncheon with you.”
“But if it is now inconvenient, out of the blue,”
“We will retire, with our usual good grace,”
“And leave you alone, in your own dumpy space.”

Farmer Joe looked quite taken aback,
For, although a civil attitude he did lack,
He was never short of attitude, with which to attack.
“Gadzooks!” Said he, face glowing magenta,
Ears emitting steam, like a volcanic venter.
“If for a free meal, you have come to my digs,”
“I’ll provide readily for you, when I feed the pigs!”
With that Farmer Joe did suddenly expire.
Dropping down dead, in the pigs mud and mire!