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”