One man went to mow his meadow

But when he got there he found

A machine had been and cut it clean

So instead of scything he sat down

And sighed for rabbit pie

Made from conies caught in the hedgerows

Hedgerows as old as the old ways

Which wend over hills and dales

Where little boy blue asleep in the hay

Was dreaming of metal monsters

That ate up little boys ...

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