You know, I started writing this and realized that the subject could be one heck of a sexual innuendo.
Originally Shane instructed me to talk about the little people, farmers in Vermont...then his next message is "short farmers." Short farmers in Vermont? Well, I think they're all borderline Canadian. I mean that literally. But I'm sure Shane is referring to our good friend, Daggett. Ricky. Dorset Daggett (whoops, not supposed to use that one anymore...) Anyway, a short little poem for a guy who may not be tall, but mighty oaks grow from tiny acorns. Or something like that.
Once upon a time there was a farmer named Ricky.
A great friend, but could be a little tricky.
Parked my car at Witter Farm one day,
Came out to see the wipers facing the wrong way.
As if that was not enough to be a comedic gem,
Slices of bread lay underneath them.
(Best I could do in a ten-minute work break).
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