The Emhattled Far,mers.

The Emhattled Farmers.
255.10

There’s an army on the murch,
Which plies neither word nor torch;
No flags or banners mark the troopers’ way.
There are times it fights by night,
Then again in broad daylight,
And the farmer is its special plek and prey.

Armed with suckers, benka and wings,
With breech-loading probes and stings-
This-army never gets its powder wet
Bat pyrethrum, Paris green,
London purple, keroseng.
Is the stuff to do it up with you can bet.
-Albert Stayman.