Summer days and heatwaves
Sweat pouring down our skin
Working hard no time to rest
From the time the day begins.

Bailing hay without a shade
Not a single cloud insight
Gathering all the barely corn
We work until the night.

we have a little hideaway
A place down in the vale
Its where we drink some scrumpy
Along with beer and ale.

We while away  an hour or more
Depending on how we feel
We rest and take it easy
No sound from the tractors wheel.

Now tomorrow is another day
Our work load it will keep
We may be striming hedge grows
Or we may be shearing sheep.

But we really are not bothered
We've been farmers far too long
We carry out our dutys
And sometimes with a song.

Our lives are hard but simple
We are living the country life
Away from the city and the fumes
From cars and such alike.

You see we have this hideaway
A little place down in the vale
So come along and join us
At the end of a farmers day

A cuckoo sings its first spring voice
The cider maker cracks his cork on this year’s choice
English apples presented from pre years press
Picked and selected to impress
Bottled and ready for drinkers wide and far
Vision distorting with every jar

From orchards up and down the land
Drinkers search the best in town
Scrumpy be the drinkers rot
Weak willed should try it not

A test once tasted of a brewers fare
An enjoyment discovered but just take care
For once you have past the half way mark
You’ll soon be singing and dancing with the larks

What makes a salad
salady? It can't be the salad itself:
lettuce leaves
us confused with
fruit salad,
broccoli salad
and coleslaw
(which isn't even a salad - or is it?).
Perhaps "salad" is the scrumpy sound
it makes when you munch on the mixture?
But what about
banana salad,
potato salad,
and tuna salad?

Should we still believe
in a definitionless dish,
or should we better define it?

In the last chance saloon, thou didst reach for the moon.
Caught it,
Sat it in an egg-cup.
While  everyone waited to crack up its head.

The moon his name was Edward,
Continued moving forward.
The moon met up with the light of the sun.
The light of the sun was served with a bun.
And a pint of the Bishops favourite tipple.

The yolk of the moon, it was somewhat lumpy.
Having his head smashed in made him so grumpy.
The corner shop sold him some scrumpy.
Left him in a tizzy.
As the pull of the tide left him soggy and dizzy.
He huffed and he puffed and he moved away.
Bringing on time at the eve of  the day.
He never appreciated the gravity of  the situation.
Getting caught by stupid and ladies and girls.
Still the sun shines and so the moon whirls.
(c) Livvi