Whatever we live for
Be it pun or euphemism
Perhaps a mere metaphor
No matter one's fetishism
Nothing is worth dying for
The hay we make even on holiday
And the hive we craft per se
Will definitely pay off someday
Maybe not immediately
But most definitely
So when the season comes
Faithful enough to arouse few smiles
Just as our sun dawns
To light our path over miles
That we too can walk on tiles
We pose again to gaze
Not at our land full of maize
Nor the properties we've made
But to render praise
For that free trade;
Of breath without buying oxygen
And bread albeit, from heaven.
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