T’was Sunday morning on the farm,
The cows had all been milked,
The pigs lay softly snorting,
The fences all rebuilt.
Chickens were a-clucking,
Dogs barking away,
Rain had started falling,
On this quiet, special day.
The breakfast table groaned
With a hearty meal to come,
Coffee sat a-brewing
As the farmer thought him done.
But dark clouds now came rolling in,
Threatening their stay,
The painter’s brush so wide and cruel
Would paint them all away.
The brush it swung so fast and true,
For the painter another role,
And the farmer and his merry bunch
Thought that they were in control.
How sad to think we live our lives
In the illusion that they’re real,
Until another comes along
And all the skins unpeel.
Our canvass fades before us,
What we thought was ours for keeps,
Then simply disappears,
Into the ether seeps.
© Copyright March 2014 Rob McShane
All rights reserved