Harvest Hymn

We spray the fields and scatter

    The poison on the ground

So that no wicked wild flowers

    Upon our farm be found.

We like whatever helps us

    To line our purse with pence;

The twenty-four-hour broiler-house

    And neat electric fence.

    All concrete sheds around us

      And Jaguars in the yard,

    The telly lounge and deep-freeze

      Are ours from working hard.

We fire the fields for harvest,

    The hedges swell the flame,

The oak trees and the cottages

    From which our fathers came.

We give no compensation,

    The earth is ours today,

And if we lose on arable,

    Then bungalows will pay.

    All concrete sheds … etc.