How to Be Charming Though Farming

IT’S hard to relax in my dirty old slacks.
I long to look sleek as an otter
In country attire the cows will admire,
Designed by McCardell or Potter.
I want to be svelte in a gold cincher belt
And act like the newspaper models,
Who wear little blouses to go with their houses
And lean on collections of bottles.

That yellow fleece coat with the lace at the throat
Is tempting me now like the dickens.
I ought not to heed it, except that I need it
For feeding the rabbits and chickens.
I never am chic when I’m dredging the creek
Or shoveling snow from the ditches.
O, where are my sensible, quite indispensable
Eighty-buck velveteen breeches?

I just can’t make news wearing arch-support shoes.
It’s time for that clever assortment
Of shoes that are beady and skirts that are tweedy
So vital to rural deportment.
Though others find kneeroom in some quaint old tearoom
And sit around posing for pictures,
I’m really too sloppy for any good shoppe;
I wouldn’t go well with the fixtures.

The horses don’t neigh in a flattering way
At night when I sweep out the stables.
My pastoral aura is not from angora
And none of my sweaters have labels.
The milkmaid of means in her custom-made jeans
Would view me like some kind of vermin.
I ought to put knees in my drab dungarees
And accent the pockets with ermine.