On his scant plot of land to pray
That his hard toil may help to raise
His son to honor and to praise.
But once the son is safe in town
The story then reads upside down.
Forgetting all his pledges now,
The earnings of his father's plow
He spends for weapons, not for books.
Dawdling through city streets, he looks
To find some pretty, loitering wench,