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St. Isidore, St. Isidore,

To you we rogate, to you we implore:

Please let it (or not) shine or pour,

Bring on the bee, hold off the hoar;

Coax the oat, swell the meat

Of grape and nut;

encourage the wheat

To ripen fat in August heat

Then lay down, brown, for us to beat

And bag in burlap with quadruple X’s

Haul to the mill with stone-ground reflexes,

Enliven the staff of both the sexes

By stuffing them full of B complexes;

Sweeten the soil’s sour grievance.

Correct the mustard’s feckles malfeasance,

Raise up the corn in rows of allegiance,

Bow down the cherry in fruitful obesiance;

O Guardian of squash and tendrilled pea,

Hoeing away at sanctity,

All ills of bud and vine and lea,

But mostly our garden, remedy.