O Lord, incline Thine ear unto our prayer
And preachers’ intercession:
This strange discrimination is unfair—
That’s our impression.
Our neighbors all about have copious rains
That fall on them like manna.
Send us the showers, Lord, and parch the plains
Of Indiana.
Upon the just and unjust, sayest Thou,
Thou’lt sprinkle without favor.
The sin of promise-breaking, all allow.
Could not be graver.
We’re just, and still our whistles are not wet,
And still ’tis growing hotter;
While every scamp in Michigan can get
His fill of water.
We ask but justice: treat us not with scorn;
Our comfort make less chilly;
And those who pray for an advance in corn—
O smite them silly!
Let corn be plentiful, and cheap: our hops
Look well without a shower;
We’ve sold our wheat: that profitable crop’s
Beyond Thy power.