Fields of melons

Ripe tomatoes in view

We'll pick under the blazing sun

Straw hat to shade my pate

Skin tanned dark, turned leathery

From years of work, in summer heat

This job sure as hell, ain't neat

Before the sun stands high

In the noon sky

I'm weary, beat

Water nor cola won't quench

My thirst from the dusty, dry

Sweat like a  pig

Smell like one too

Twenty-five of us

Empty baskets piled high

At row's end

Three hundred acres

'Til we're done

No wonder my back

Creaks, aches

I feel like a trained ant

Pulling the fruit from the plant

To myself I begin to ask

Lord, can't some of these baskets

Fill themselves, while I shade myself

Neath that tall, lonely old aok

I'm tired, weary folk

This picking job

It's a terrible joke