’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the farm, not a creature was stirring; it wasn’t that warm.
The Producer was sitting all snug on the table
With each farmer’s name printed clear on the label.
Its headlines were clever, its content was true
Those farmers, they read it ’cause it was their due.
And what to their wondering eyes did appear
But stories of trade and of battles unclear.
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Yet with some other countries so lively and slick
They knew in a moment they wouldn’t be licked.
Oh Russia! Oh U.S.! Oh, China and Europe!
Our pork! Our canola! Our durum and syrup!
Your trade issues irk and they aren’t fair at all.
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away, all!
And then in a twinkling, the farmers they thought
Of a year filled with dryness and wetness and hot.
Spring seeding so cold since they could not remember
And summer that didn’t arrive ‘til September.
A harvest that lasted for months, it was hard
So hard that their confidence was nearly jarred
They thought about weevils and clubroot and hoppers
Of swine flu and gophers and other jaw droppers
Hog prices, they tumbled, cow prices went south
Producers they felt sort of down in the mouth.
Their eyes, how they crinkled! Their wrinkles, how scary!
Their wallets were slim and their tummies were hairy!
But they rallied their hopes, gave the future a leer
And emerged with bright plans for good farming next year.
They opened their papers, and let out a whistle
At tidings of joy in Producer epistles.
And we heard them exclaim, as they turned to the light
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.
