They tell me farming’s healthy, and maybe you agree,
But I can tell you squarely that it’s not been kind to me.
Not that I’m complainin’, I’ve had a decent life,
But farming’s caused me body a fair amount of strife.

I suffer from arthritis, and rheumatism, too,
And, every flamin’ winter, I catch the wretched flu;
Me hips are not too handy, me right knee's pretty crook,
High-tensile took me eye out so I’ve got a one-eyed look.

Through carting hay and timber, I’ve jiggered up me back,
And, every time I twist me neck, I hear a nasty crack;
Me ticker’s not too bad, I guess, I have a murmur there,
And, prob’ly due to worry, I’ve lost me head of hair.

I’ve got a lot of spots and things through being in the sun,
Each time I see the doctor he removes another one;
Me left hand isn’t pretty, I crushed it years ago,
And, when splitting up some fence-posts, I lost me second toe.

I don’t get quite so breathless since I’ve given up the smokes,
But I don’t think I’m as healthy as all you other folks,
But still I work eight hours a day, thankful I’m alive,
Which isn’t bad, I reckon, for a bloke who’s ninety-five!

Source:

Rush, P. A. (n.d.) Poems that would stun a sheep. Retrieved 5th April 2011 from:

http://www.philiprush.com.au/sheep.htm