A force of nature, farmer's plague, that only touches few,
But devastates crops in its path, this year it hit me too!
A waving field of winter wheat, that's longing to be cut,
One day is there; the bank gets robbed! (a breach of etiquette?)
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Vagaries of nature... we face flood, winds, ice storms, torrid heat... but none seem to attack at just the wrong time as hail. Makes one wonder if the devil himself conjured up these frozen hailstones. Your poem helps see inside the farmer's mind, and explain why his occupation is nothing short of a crapshoot. To go home broke is definitely a possibility each year.