Competition

Third Prize

The Man from G.M. Foods
by Peter Jesser
Inglewood, Qld

 The man from G.M. Foods had been travelling through the west
To bring the news to country folk: “Gene Modified is best.
The future lies with G.M. Foods. The modern way to farm!
Our research shows that profits soar – and that it does no harm.”

But farmers are a wary lot, and though he tried his best,
He struggled to convince them they should put it to the test.
Deep down he knew – as salesmen do – he could achieve his aims
If only he could find a place to demonstrate his claims.

That’s just what he was thinking when he spied a rundown farm
With an overgrown orchard and a sort of rustic charm …
If you overlooked the thistles and the goats that roamed at will,
The pigs beside the kitchen steps, and chickens on the sill.

This sleepy backwoods enterprise was Fred Carew’s estate –
And there was Fred Carew himself, standing by the gate.
A bloke like this, the salesman thought, shouldn’t be too hard to sway.
He’d surely jump at half a chance to make his business pay.

Fred picked him in a moment – his shirt was neatly pressed,
His hair was trimmed, his boots were shined …but Fred was not impressed.
Anyone who looked that flash was there to do a deal.
Fred took a breath and hitched his pants – and waited for the spiel.

The G.M. Foods man shook Fred’s hand, as salesmen always will,
Remarking as he did upon Fred’s obvious farming skill.
He could see the great potential in the kind of set up here.
He had something that might interest Fred, if he’d but lend an ear.

Genetic modification was the modern way to go,
The key to higher profits – something Fred would surely know.
There was stock that grew more quickly, crops with higher yields,
Plants with special purposes in scientific fields.

Fred heard his man politely while he talked of pigs and beans,
Until the salesman ventured into goats with spider genes –
How scientists were now extracting proteins from their milk
That could then be processed further to turn out spider silk

This – and here he lowered his voice – made fabrics very tough.
It was being used in armaments … but Fred had heard enough.
“The thought of spider webs in milk would put me off my oats,
and I can’t see my missus take to milking eight legged-goats.”

“But I see where you’re coming from.” He looked around and then
pointed to the kitchen door where sat his prize black hen.
“I s’pose you’d take a hen like that – or a rooster, in this case –
and cross it with a Friesian cow, to create a whole new race.

‘Cause a milker that gave egg nog would be quite a thing, I’d say,
what they call ‘value adding’ – ain’t that the modern way?
Or cross a hen and Berkshire boar. Now that’d go down well –
A chook that laid your breakfast egg in a crispy bacon shell!

“Well, not quite …” the salesman said, as he tried to find his ground.
Still he thought he had Fred thinking and just might bring him round.
“That’s not the way gene splicing works. What it can do for you
Is grow new gene spliced apples that would keep a year or two.”

But his hopes were dashed at once by Fred, who added. “All the same,
You’d have to watch the downside risk if you played this little game.
If you walked beneath the feathered Friesians grazing in the trees,
There’s a chance you’d cop a cow pat that’d bring you to your knees.”

“I don’t think … “ the salesman said. But Fred had hit his straps.
“That’s just the trouble. You don’t think. Consider this. P’raps
If you crossed a kelpie with a Border Leicester ewe
You’d get sheep to round themselves up. That’d be the thing to do.”

“But then I’d have a thousand woolly whatnots going ‘baa’,
Running up and down the road, and chasing every car.
And if they mustered up themselves, there’d be a sight to see –
It’d take the whole mob half a day just to pass one tree.”

The salesman moved as if to speak but was somehow lost for words.
It slowly dawned – ‘gene modified’ was not for old Fred’s herds.
He smiled at Fred though gritted teeth: “You’ve clearly thought this through.”
“I have,” said Fred, “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”

The butterflies and birds still thrive on Fred Carew’s estate.
He has no need to wonder what the food is on his plate.
Fred’s chickens grow more slowly but they grow like chickens should,
His apples crunch like apples and not like chalk or wood.

And Fred still laughs about it when he’s had a beer or three:
“I tried to show that G.M. bloke some practicality.
But I reckon he’d been gene spliced with a Brahman bull, y’see,
‘Cause when I showed it wouldn’t work, he got the hump with me!”