It's a hard job, sort of like being president, only different

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I was trying to write additional lyrics to "I Wanna Be a Farmer" but it turned into a whole new song. Lucky for me and for you!

The Farm Report

Dear brother Jake, I hope this letter
Finds you in good health
I trust your new job's suiting you
And you're building up your wealth

Things are quiet on the farm
Since father passed away
I'll bring you up to date although
There isn't much to say

Two weeks ago on Monday
We had a lot of sun
So I put extra hours in
And got the plowing done

That Tuesday's weather wasn't bad
We had some scattered clouds
I planted up the back 40
Woulda made our pappa proud

Wednesday took a turn for worst
We had a little rain
But the sheering couldn't wait
I wouldn't stop for a hurricane

Thursday was a little hard
With snow and sleet and hail
But my urgent prayers were answered
And our crops didn't fail

Friday too was difficult
You might have read about the flood
It took all day and half the night
To dig the combine from the mud

On Saturday we were overcome
By a swarm of army ants
When those little buggers bite you
It surely makes you dance

Sunday brought a cold snap
And we had some serious freezes
But once again my prayers were heard
We were safe in the hands of Jesus

Some people say the rustic life
Means monotony
Those folks find it awful dull
But this quiet life suits me

On Monday a volcano
Kicked up a little dust
It was quite a scene when it blew off steam
Just like Vesuvius

On Tuesday we were indisposed
By seven strong earthquakes
The ground rippled like a belly dancer
It gave the farm some shakes.

Wednesday brought more problems
This time it was a tidal wave
But we got through, we went to ground
In the old Bald Mountain cave

On Thursday trouble started
With the prize herd of dairy cows
Several up and disappeared,
As did ma's finest sow

On Friday I was flummoxed when
I found a mutilated bull
His parts were scattered all across
A field full of crop circles

By Saturday I was feeling like
I was very close kin to Job
When little men from outer space
Gave me an anal probe

When Sunday came I rested
Reading proverbs and drinking tea
The doors and windows barricaded
Against those darn zombies

Some people say the rustic life
Means monotony
Those folks find it awful dull
But this quiet life suits me.