Weather worn hands
penetrate virgin soil.
Life implanted
through blood and toil.
Years of work
On the open field.
Bring to them
a fruitful yield.
But when the land
Is passed onto child.
Gluttony runs awild.
Impetuous and Forsaken.
Growing nothing,
And only taking.
Eventually they
starve and die.
The land however waits…
Offering men another try.
One Regular Dad 
I like your poetry. What I do not like as much is my five-year-old brain that made me giggle aloud because of the word ‘penetrate.’ Oops!
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Yeah I don’t blame you for that one. It happens to the best of us.
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It got me also. The penetrating and virgin in one sentence. oops lol
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Yeah that one’s hard not to chuckle at.
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For some of us it is easy for maturity to slip a bit when reading it, but i was in no way making fun of your work. Just wanted you to know that. Keep rockin’ man
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