The farmer in the dell is quite an innocent cliche,
A man, his wife, a child and heigh-ho derry-o to say.
One thinks of carting horses, shucking corn or apple groves.
Fresh produce, roaming livestock, insects flying round in droves.
Not many would immediately think of steamy sex,
A muscle-bound philanderer with arms to hold and flex.
But wand'ring through a market with a spectacle of goods,
You see a cornucopia of those misunderstood.
Perhaps all those without a sense of hedonistic lust,
Would not at once appreciate a tractor lined with rust.
But those who find enchantment in the Michaelangelo,
Cannot but find attraction in rural lothario.
All hail to Saturn, Ceres, or Demeter who decree,
The agricultural visions of the Farmer Eye Candy.