A Poem:

"It's time to move those sprinklers," I heard the Old Man say,

"Don't worry about that electric storm, it's a quarter mile away.

Stop your damned complaining, I don't want to hear your gripes,

Just put on your boots, hit those fields and move them G D pipes!"

The sun's been up an hour, it's 92 degrees,

There's 20 acres of alfalfa hay, and 80 more in peas.

A red tailed hawk and two mourning doves are keeping me company,

Plus a million mosquitoes, a rattlesnake, and a black widow or three.

I shut the valve off the first sprinkler line, and move it to the next riser.

There's a head blown off on line number 2, spouting a 20 foot geyser.

Back to the pump to get a pipe wrench, and a replacement part, 

Then on to see the damage firsthand, with dread inside my heart.

The water's been gushing for hours, blew the peas out by the roots,

And changed the soil to a pudding-like mess, that clamped onto both of my boots.

The mud was up to my ankles, I was stuck in a field of peas.

By the time I got my right foot free, I had fallen down to my knees.

I looked back to see both my boots, standing empty in the mud.

A salty taste was in my mouth, I realized it was blood.

I'd hit my nose with the pipe wrench when I stumbled to the ground.

I tried to ignore the bleeding until the parts were found.

I poured the water from my boots, replaced the damaged head,

Wiped my nose on my shirt, and looked at the job ahead.

My nose was throbbing, mosquitoes were biting, the mourning doves were calling.

I thought, "how could this day get any worse," when the first drops of rain started falling.

Strong and gusty, the wind came up next, blowing the mosquitoes away.

"We'll make this the worst day of your young teenage life," the elments seemed to say.

I moved up the lines, fought the wind and the rain, the ground seemed to grab at my feet.

Pick up the pipe, lean into the wind, hook up to the next, and repeat.

Ninety pipes later, the water is set, the clouds are replaced with the sun.

Four lines of sprinklers, clacking away, the job is finally done.

Back to the house, on to the porch, still feeling to wet and weary.

Too tired to change clothes, too tired to eat, too tired to even think clearly.

The Old Man drives up from the east field and looks at my wet muddy bod.

"You change all four lines in the peas and the hay?" I reply with a sigh and a nod.

"What took you so long," he wants to know. "did you daydream and look at the flowers?

Those lines have to be on six-hour sets, so you'll move them again in four hours."