This seemingly soft November day,
My old man is a little apprehensive,
In one of his favorite black pants,
That once fitted him like hand in glove,
Over twenty years ago!
But now in his frail Eighties, he,
Wore them bottoms rolled up,
Kept up by a homemade rope,
Assembled from the inner bark,
Of the tropical Msasa tree!
This fine morning, he is agitated,
By the gathering dark clouds,
Hurried us to the acre we tilled,
Yesterday, to sow the corn seeds,
And as it happened, just in time!
Overcast, the ominous sky threatened,
With shiny strikes and loud thunderclaps,
Then unleashed the contents of its belly,
Discharged all in a matter of minutes,
Very much to my amused old man!