Sucker

The winds do not blow.
They are sucked by a man
On a hill in Japan
And blown into a can
And then fed to a crow.

The man may perspire
But his lungs are still strong.
He’s done this so long
In his ochre sarong,
He’s beginning to tire.

Now bloated and gay,
The crow just gets fat.
He wears a lead hat
With a peak long and flat
So he won’t blow away.

“One day,” says the man,
“I will up and go home,
Maybe travel to Rome
With my paper and comb
And paint like Cezanne.

“Then my crow will grow lean
And the winds will die down
And the people will frown
In the country and town
And ask what it might mean.

“They’ll consult all their books,
But they never will know
‘Bout this aerated crow
And why winds will not blow.
Oh this job really sucks.”