This is a tale about Tony. He is a Farmer in the Stanthorpe District of Queensland Australia. The best wine producing district in the country.

With three Gold medals in the world Championships 2002, one of the best producers in the world.
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The Farmer V the Missionaries
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Tony is a simple man
He works in the fields all day.
He slaves each day as hard as he can,
So the man at the bank he can pay.

He feeds and minds his family,
Who he rules with an iron hand.
But they don’t mind, ‘cos they love him you see,
This nuggety man of the land.

They go to church each Sunday,
Though he thinks the ideas quite insane,
That they sing and pray to the man in the sky,
And by Wednesday they still got no rain.

One day he was working picking the vines.
When some mission’ry types came along.
Dressed in blue suits, they looked mighty fine.
They were telling him where his life had gone wrong.

Said they’d come to help him, come to save his soul.
And to tell him a tale that, would ease his burden and toil,
When one of them tripped, fell into a hole.
He looked quite a mess, all muddy and soiled.

Tony just stopped, and wiped his hands,
Down the sides of his mud stained overalls.
Mumbled “When will these idiots understand,
That a farmer must follow when nature calls.

He tipped back his hat, and wiped his brow,
With a kerchief that had seen better days,
While he pondered the problem of what to do now
To get rid of these fools, send them both on their way.

Like a stroke of lightning he had an idea.
He was sure that the idea would work.
He figured these types in their fancy clean gear,
Would cringe at the thought of doing real work.

He said “ As you can see, it’s getting quite late,
Soon it’ll be dark and the rain will come down
Now I’d like to stop, but I just can’t wait,
As you see the grapes are all grown.”

“So if one of you takes the row next to me,
The other can take the row just behind.
You can talk all you want when get home for tea.
Just keep up with me, now never you mind.”

They looked at each other, then stared hard at him,
Their eyes were wide open with shock.
Then looked at their suits, a bit spattered but trim.
Then voicing excuses, their leave they soon took.

Later that night as he stood at the Bar.
He told all that would listen, his tale.
How the Preachers had run, back to their car,
All muddy, and flustered, and pale.

So now when they come, to knock on my door,
I ask them to come help me work.
One thing I know, and I know it for sure,
When it comes to real labor they’ll shirk.

Robin. A. Spicer © Third of October 2003