Major Marjoram stood at his farmyard gate
Legs wide in a strong farmer’s gait
Arms folded over his satisfied chest
And beamed as he’d done muchly of late
Much too muchly
He changed his beam to a scowl
Fast before the wind could howl
A beam might encourage the sun
The sun wouldn’t help the mud to run
The sun would encourage the mud to dry
Then he’d have every camera-toting hiker passing by