A limey might say: a bird in hand is better in the bush?
A farmer’s work is never done for which he’s poorly paid.
He's on the hook from seed to bin until his crop is made.
Then came a year when in despair his only luck was bad.
From door to door he peddled wares, a single crate he had.
Whence upon a cottage came he knocked upon the door.
A shapely lass had opened same, sheer negligee she wore.
He bared his fruit; “fresh peaches, ma’am, my last you’d care to buy?”
And while she viewed, his vision strayed; this temptress claimed his eye.
“Are they as firm as this?” she smiled, and slipped one strap aside.
The farmer stammered, swallowed hard, his gaze had opened wide.
“Y─, yes indeed, and picked today; no better bunch all year.
I guarantee you'll love the lot,” thence shed a single tear.
“As round and pink?” she coyly cooed, the other strap undid.
His pulse rate up, a second tear had slipped from ‘neath its lid.
‘Oh my, dear me, most surely so,” with pounding in his heart.
“For baking cobblers, cakes, and pies; they’d make a tasty tart.”
“And fuzzy like this kitty fluff?” she slid her panties low.
The farmer swooned, he’d lost control and tears began to flow.
“Good lord!” he gasped. “I pray they are, but must apologize.
Can’t take no more,” his hanky out, and daubed his reddened eyes.
“But why the tears, my wayward friend? I'll gladly pay your fee."
He sighed relief and dried his eyes, then promptly posed a plea.
“My beans were lost to flood, you see; my corn is gone from drought.
A twister tore my barn in two, my cattle all ran out.
So, when my knees grew weak from lust with you there nearly nude.
T'was thinkin' out of only crop, again I'm gettin' screwed.”