A poem recounted

The Farmers Will

I leave…to my wife, my overdraft at the bank – maybe she can explain it.

To my son, equity in my car – now he’ll have to go to work to meet the repayments.

To my banker, my soul – he’s got a mortgage on it anyway.

To my neighbour, my clown suit – he’ll need it if he continues to farm as he has in the past

To the Rural Adjustment Board, my unpaid bills – they took osome real chances on me and I want to do the same for them.

To the Australian Wheat Board, my remaining Wheat Pool Equity – they’ll need it to pay the wharfies’ exorbitant pay rates.

To my Farm Adviser, my Farm Plan – maybe he can understand it.

To the local Shire Council, my pile of broken shock absorbers & blown tyres – I suggest they make the appropriate deduction from my overdue rates.

To the junk man, my machinery – he’s had his eye on it for years.

To my undertaker, a special request – six implement and fertiliser dealers for pall bearers please – they’re used to carrying me.

To the weather man, rain sleet and hail for the funeral – no sense in having nice weather now.

To the gravedigger, don’t bother – the hole I’m in should be big enough.

To the monument maker, carve an epitaph something like

“Under this stone a farmer lies

No one laughs & no one cries

Where he’s gone and how he fares

No one knows & no one cares”

Alternatively, if I am cremated send the ashes to the Taxation Department with a brief note reading “There you are, you bastards, now you’ve got the lot”

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