The Millet Farmer It’s joy to suck marrow, suck ’til it’s dry At the end of the meal at the end of the day The empty bone whistles its breath song awry. The creek on the farm now lights up my mind’s eye The farmer sits gentle ’neath willow tree’s sway It’s joy to suck marrow, suck ’til it’s dry But creek leeches lurk and the sunning snakes lie There’s always the ones who will seek out new prey The empty bone whistles its breath song awry. Fresh from the lake trout, ripe tomatoes to fry The eucalypt camp smoke…