Hands upon harrows

Heels in the weeds

Starving and harvesting

Down centuries

Pheasants in fields to be hunted and plucked

Such is their ration of sixpenny luck



Multinous Мужикѕ

Who mutter in tongues

They frighten the horses

Of fortunate sons

Absent the rustics, what have they become?

Only on Sunday their tears weakly run



More or less murder?

One simple order

It's just history's whisper

A secret to leave in the field

Hands upon harrows and heels in the weeds

Treason and guillotines, gallows and thieves



Angular hayseeds once furrowed this land

Picturesque reapers with skeletal hands

Proles are more portly now, mouths open wide

Tipping the scales we so kindly provide

Skeletal hands were our strata's delight

But oh so offensive on opening night