When the grapes, so green, from the ground are picked,

And treaded and tramped in the trough for wine,

When the minters’ machines the money are printing,

The future fiscal year fast approaching,

The swill-eating swine for their sweet meat are slaughtered,

And carefully cured and cooked is the pork,

When the grassy grain grows so plump,

And shucked are the shells in the shed gathered,

When red and ripe are the round apples,

Their small seeds saved from the cores,

For when plowing for plentiful planting is the earth,

(But think no theatrics if thorns should prick!)

When tidings are told via telegraph wire,

That the wearying wasteful war continues,

When brambly briar in britches is tiresome,

The corporal’s cover works callously agin’ him,

And the large limber lock is fastened,

(All this ammo for artillery cannons!)

—Then the gabbling geese will go very soon,

Flapping fly the flocks ever southward.

But weary these wet waterfowl are:

For death this day decimates the flock,

Leaving to loneliness the last three geese.

Twitching their tail feathers they take to the air.

But sadly, the south they’ll not see again.

Nor friends will they find in future times.

In different directions death will claim them.

The first flies further eastward,

Gladly greets the golden dawn.

The second soars, seeking its fortune

Where slowly sets the sun at evening.

But the third thinks its thighs will take it

Down o’er the dense dunnock’s hedge—

But nary this nest houses noble dunnock!

The cunning cuckoo chick cries to be fed!