Bought the Farm. Not Leaving.

o death of me you’ll get no joy
nor make me utter pleas
i will not beg or wail for you
when thee comes for me

i am not the waiting willing
man of eld and feeble times
these arms, this back, these legs you see
are strong of meat and wine

and not will i go quietly down
to the sleepy bower black
in hazy under-mountain town
to sleep upon thy rack

gripping fast to my pike
with earthly, fleshly hands
when old man scythe and bone comes call
i’ll stay and i will stand

no after lands for me old man
no songs in ancient halls
i'm content to plow my purch
and sleeps beneath the falls

for living hands doth make great work
and this land i’ve bought with blood
you had your chance to take me down
on battlefields of mud

survive did i the fighting fields
and now make my war with dirt
from the bloody soil
i coax green and vital herbs

so once i again i say: old death,
you’ll not come for me
you missed me with your arrows flight
and swords keen misery

back ye beast
from whence ye came
i’ll guard against the sky
and hoe my field in peaceful wield
‘gainst fateful father time