[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 137 (Monday, October 6, 1997)]
[Senate]
[Pages S10426-S10427]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




       A POETIC TRIBUTE TO TOBACCO GROWERS BY PEM PFISTERER CLARK

  Mr. HELMS. Mr. President, criticism of and attacks on the tobacco 
industry--and, by implication, tobacco growers--has become a sort of 
one-upmanship cottage industry among politicians who, in earlier days, 
scrambled to pay their respects to those engaged in growing tobacco and 
manufacturing it. The name of the game is ``piling on'' and the 
political types are doing it with gusto.
  Last month, Mr. President, Dot Helms and I attended a meeting of the 
Burley and Dark Leaf Tobacco Association at Williamsburg. The 
distinguished speaker at the dinner was Fred Barnes, one of today's 
most respected journalists.
  Presiding at the dinner was an impressive young lady, Pem Pfisterer 
Clark, general manager of the Stemming District Tobacco Association in 
Henderson, KY.
  During the program, Ms. Clark recited a touching poem she had written 
about tobacco farmers. To those of us whose States produce tobacco, so 
heatedly maligned by its turncoat one-time friends, Pem Clark's tribute 
to these farmers was something that needed saying--and she said it 
well.
  Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that Pem Clark's poem be 
printed in the Record at the conclusion of my remarks.

                           Tribute To Growers

     Ladies . . . gentleman . . .
     My mission now tonight
     Is to share from my perspective
     My thoughts on this ``Tobacco Fight''.

     I represent a group of folk
     Who dedicate their lives
     To producing the very plant
     On which this industry survives.

     Here's a billion dollar business
     That we hold to our hearts,
     That's sprouting from God's smallest seed.
     Now, that's a very humble start!

     It's not by chance or accident
     That from the well-worked earth,
     A rich and leafy plant springs forth
     That boasts of quality and worth.

     A farmer can't put on his crop
     By tossing out some seeds.
     Even a ``city slicker'' knows
     That all that guy will grow are weeds.

     The work is toil, the labor long.
     He plants and hoes and sprays.
     And weary, he goes in at night
     And sighs, and bows his head and prays.

     At this point he's done all he can;
     Now it's not up to him.
     A lot of what will happen now
     Depends on Mother Nature's whim.

     The drought will come, pests and disease.
     It's like a game of craps.
     The sun, the wind, the rain, the hail . . .
     But farmers, see, are used to that.

     Relief! The crop is made. It's good.
     The first fight fought he wins.
     His crop stands healthy in the field,
     But now the real hard work begins.

     The harvest is back-breaking work.
     Good help is hard to find.
     The farmer says his prayers again . . .
     ``No mold, house burn. Good cure, this time''.


[[Page S10427]]


     The curing season has been good
     He takes it from the barn.
     The second fight he also wins . . .
     His crop emerges safe from harm.

     Lovingly the leaves are handled.
     He prepares for the sale.
     These will serve to feed his family--
     These leaves hand-tied or in a bale.

     His legal crop goes to the floor
     And now the prayer that's prayed,
     ``Oh God, please let demand be high,
     A good price given by the trade.''

     And so he wins fight number three.
     He's paid for all he's done.
     He did his best and it paid off.
     He thinks this season's battles' won.

     WRONG!!! Now enter fight number four:
     His goose may well be cooked!
     In talks of politics ans suits
     The farmers' fate is overlooked!

     That status doesn't last for long.
     Parties soon see the light.
     Leave out the guy who grows the plant?!?
     That's just plain dumb! And far from right!

     Now talks of settlement include
     The man who has the chore
     Of growing the tobacco plants,
     And so he wins fight number four.

     But he worries for his family.
     It's how his family's fed.
     The money from tobacco sales
     Buys shelter, clothes and bread.

     The plant the farmer nourishes . . .
     He tries to keep alive . . .
     There are those who want to kill it
     Watch if wither up and die

     Deep in his soul he wants to help
     This industry survive.
     And now he bows his head and pleads,
     ``God help us win fight number five.''--Pem Pfisterer Clark, 
           Copyright pending.

                          ____________________