I can see George, that you could do no other.
Six deranged sisters, and an empty hearted mother.
No fields of gold to feed your soul, no play, no love, no fun.
The daily drudge of farming bogged down the only son.
Every day a battle, too many mouths to feed.
No affluence in the effluence, no way you could be freed.
No time to make things better, just constant filth and toil.
Your lack of accomplishment, now buried in this soil.