Hymn of the scientific farmers

A poem by Clive Sansom that can be sung to the tune of  “We plough the fields and scatter.” Though he may have become a Quaker- at least he was not born into a hypocrite set of family values like those of the Albright and Wilson’s of this world.

“We squirt the fields and scatter                                                                                                    Our phosphates on the land:                                                                                                        ‘Organic waste’ and ‘humus’,                                                                                                             We do not understand

We slaughter trees in thousands                                                                                                    To sell them for what they’re worth;                                                                                                 No stems to hold the water,                                                                                                             No roots to hold the earth.

Our farms will turn to deserts                                                                                                      Where not a crop can grow,                                                                                                              But long before that happens                                                                                                          We’ll take our gains and go

We’ll strip the lanes and hedges;                                                                                                    No wild-flower must surivive,                                                                                                          Nor bird find place to nest in-                                                                                                          Let only insects thrive!

We spray to kill diseases,                                                                                                             And once a cure is made                                                                                                                Some other pest is started:                                                                                                                But that is good for trade.

We rob the flour of virtue,                                                                                                                We leave a rifled sack;                                                                                                                  And then with new synthetics                                                                                                         We almost put it back.

We pump our fowls with hormones-                                                                                                 as fast as fast can be;                                                                                                                       Consumers die of cancer                                                                                                                But we’re not there to see.

Our God is an Equation,                                                                                                                  and Profit is our goal:                                                                                                                       ‘Exploit the parts like fury-                                                                                                      Forget about the whole.'”