He had, in his ninety years
opened the cranky door
that let the horses out
and hay and fodder in,
a hundred million times.
And so he did this day,
a beggar had been seen,
he was, by all appearances
a bloody gypsy from the east.
They'd sell you something
they had stolen down the road
and cried with coal-black eyes
in front of you and all who would
still be receptive and a trifle soft.
He saw the odour before he smelled it,
unwashed and sly, with beards of gray
he'd grabbed the pitchfork on his way
and was prepared to stick it to the freaks.
A little girl, of such angelic looks and beauty
had walked the steps up to the stop
and lifted soft and pudgy hands to help
until together with the farmer it gave way
and creaking sounds announced the dawn
and the beginning of a novel New Year's Day.