Who Shall Help Me Cut The Wheat?

Posted: September 25, 2011 in Unrelated to incarceration
Tags: ,

Wheat (Triticum aestivum L.)

Photo by Dag Endresen on flickr under Creative Commons

Little Red Hen The Ninety Niner Without A Job lived in a
barnyard rural American town where most of the small business buildings were boarded up. She spent almost all of her time walking about the barnyard walking around the town diving dumpsters for food, and scratching everywhere for the
worms maggots off the food packages when her husband was not looking because the food was still perfectly good.

She dearly loved fat the food she found, and since it was nutritious, she fed it to her children.

“Chuck-chuck-chuck!” she called to her chicks hungry children, when she was lucky enough to find food.

When they were gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels of her tid-bit latest dumpster raid. A busy little body was she!

A cat Democrat who was about as useless as a screen door on a submarine usually napped lazily in the barn door between rounds of golf at various upscale resorts, not even bothering himself to scare the rat Republican who ran here and there as he pleased.

And as for the pig banker who lived in the sty on Wall Street—he did not care what
happened [to anyone] so long as he could eat and grow fat [and rip people off, especially if they were poor.].

One day the Little Red Hen Unemployed American Citizen Who Used To Have A Job found a Seed. It was a Wheat Seed, but the Poor People In America waswere so accustomed to bugs and worms that they had nearly given up on finding anything good about their lives any more. She bit it gently and found that it resembled a worm in no way whatsoever as to taste although because it was long and slender, a Little Red Hen might easily be fooled by its appearance waited to die, thinking that she might be eating some Monsanto-created Coming Plague, but she didn’t die and the seed was a good seed.

Carrying it about, she made many inquiries as to what it might be. She found it was a Wheat Seed that poor people work hard and are kind and that, if planted, it would grow up and when ripe it could be made into flour and then into bread.

When she discovered that, she knew it ought to be planteddecided to become an activist humanitarian. She was so busy hunting food for herself and her family [and gas was so expensive and money was so scarce that, naturally, she thought she ought not to take time to plant it.

So she thought of the Pig Banker—upon whom time must hang heavily and of the Cat Democrat who had nothing to do, and of the great fat Rat Republican who sat on the golf course smoking cigars and drinking single malt Scotch, and she called loudly:

“Who will cares enough about people to plant the Seed?”

But the Pig Banker said, “Not I,”

and the Cat Democrat said, “Not I,”

and the Rat Republican said, “Not I.”

“Well, then,” said the Little Red Hen Teeming Masses Of Poor, Underemployed, Unemployed, Uninsured, Tired American Citizens Who Were Fed Up With Being Taken Advantage Of, “I will.”

And she they did.

Then she they went on with her daily duties through the long summer days, scratching for worms and feeding her chicks struggling to scrape by and barely feed their families, while

the Pig Banker grew fat,

and the Cat Democrat grew fat,

and the Rat Republican grew fat,

and the Wheat grew tall and ready for harvest.

So one day the Little Red HenStruggling Starving People Including Veterans And Children, by the way, chanced to notice how large the Wheat was and that the grain was ripe, so she they ran about calling briskly: “Who will cut the Wheat?”

The Banker said, “Not I,”

the Democrat said, “Not I,”

and the Ratepublican said, “Not I.”

“Well,

then butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” said the Little Red Hen People Who Were Beginning To Lose Hope,

I We will.”

And she they did.

They got the sickle from among the farmer’s tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plant of Wheat.

On the ground lay the nicely cut Wheat, ready to be gathered and threshed, but the Little Red Hen Only People In America Who Were Actually Doing Things That Matter had a family to raise and she did not know if she they had the time to harvest the wheat.

Poor Little Red Hen People Who Longed For The Days When The Country Didn’t Suck! SheThey felt quite bewildered and hardly knew where to turn.

HerTheir attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the Wheat, for which she they felt responsible.

So, again, in a very hopeful tone, shethey peacefully called out, “Who will thresh the Wheat?” And again, when the Wheat was ready for threshing shethey called out for help, and each time shethey called for help, they got the same answers:

The PigBanker, with a grunt, said, “Not I,” and the CatDemocrat, with a meow, said, “Not I,” and the Republican, with a squeak, said, “Not I.”

So the Little Red HenTired And The Downtrodden, looking, it must be admitted, rather discouraged, said, “Well, I we will, then.”

And she they did.

Even as she they sleepily half opened one eye, the thought came to her them that to-day that Wheat must, somehow, be made into bread.

Feeling that she they might have known all the time that she they would have to do it all herself, they went and put on borrowed a fresh apron and spotless cook’s cap from the town bread baker, Bill Egnor. First of all she they set the dough, as was proper. When it was time she they brought out the baking tins, kneaded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake. All the while the Democrat sat lazily by, giggling and chuckling.

And close at hand the vain Ratepublican powdered his nose and admired himself in a mirror.

In the distance could be heard the long-drawn snores of the dozing PigBanker.

At last the great moment arrived. A delicious odor was wafted upon the autumn breeze. Everywhere the barnyard citizens sniffed the air with delight.

Although she they appeared to be perfectly calm, in reality she they could only with difficulty restrain an impulse to dance and sing, for had she they not done all the work on this wonderful bread to make the world a better place for everyone’s children and granchildren?

Then, probably because she had acquired the habit, the Red Hen People Who Worked For What They Believed In called:

“Who will eat the Bread?”

All the animals in the barnyard were watching hungrily and smacking their lips in anticipation, and

the Pig Banker said, “I will,”

the Cat Democrat said, “I will,”

the Rat Republican said, “I will.”

But the Little Red Hen Passing Public That Consists Of People Who Have Some Sense said,

“No, you won’t. I We will.”

And she they did.

October2011.org

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