Living the dream.

There's a hole in my welly and I'm feeling damp. The mucks seeping in and my toes have got cramp.

I smell of stale milk and wet brewers grains, my jeans have a rip and there's stains on my stains.

I dropped my new phone when I scraped up the slurry, I plunged in my hand because I had to hurry.

And stuck up my sleeve going green on my arm, some of the stuff that you find on a farm.

There's poo in my hair and it's dried on all crusty. I find my old coat and it smells stale and musty.

I slip in the yard on thirteen's placenta, and my jeans turned a shade of deep red magenta.

My glasses are speckled I'm struggling to see, and all that I want is a hot cup of tea.

My clothes are now damp and I'm starting to steam, and most wouldn't see that I'm living the dream.

Life on the farm is not like on the telly, they don't show the muck and you can't tell it's smelly.

They all wear clean clothes and checked plaided shirts, and wellies that never get to see any dirt.

They don't show the times when the sheep have got out, or mention the language and the things that we shout.

And everyone thinks that we're all a bit slow, and think that it's all like they see on the show.

But we are the ones who put food on your plate, even when we look rough and our clothes are a state.

And that's how it is when you work on the land, take a new look and you might understand. Jan Millward©