Hammer & Sickle

Contemplate this, hole-and-corner, verdant valley

A place, if known, into which one might choose to sally

There's no rush hour mayhem, for there is no commuting

No law enforcement, no taxes and no genteel disputing

Here they forage and farm beyond the civilised clamour

Working hard the sickle and scythe, the saw and the hammer

It's a serene cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses

Where they all reside, them and their spouses

All rustic types who use the Hammer & Sickle

Reticent, mean and constantly fickle

There's a rusty red tractor, circa the sixties

Runs on red stolen from gypsies

There's chopped wood for the hearth in a teetering stack

And with an assortment of livestock, for nothing they lack

Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river

With packed lunches of sweetbreads and minced chicken liver

One has a baccy stained beard that's grime infested

And the weasel eyes of a man too often arrested

He pulls a bucket from a well and drinks the sullied water

In his outhouse squeals a pig who is ready for slaughter

He sharpens a cleaver and tightens his belt

Po-faced, but eager, to have the fatal cut dealt

There's a communal settlement down in the valley

Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley

Those who are there will harvest crops with razor sharp scythes

Contribute to the barn and take care of their wives

Some of them are farmers tending the wheat

But some of them are hunters gathering the meat

There's a distant voice heard on a walkie-talkie

From high on a hill someone has called in from a sortie

A gun is reloaded with buckshot in a cartridge

He'll be stalking today, but not the pheasant or the partridge

They'll need to stoke up a stove and put smoke through a stack

With fresh meat on the way for nothing they'll lack

There's an eerie cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses

Where they all reside, them and their spouses

All rustic types who enjoy the wield of an axe

With the comforting thuds of well delivered hacks

They pull a plough with the tractor, circa the sixties

They're self-sufficient and drink moonshine, meths and whiskeys

Baccy beard is back with hands grime infested

With his weasel eyes mean and far from dejected

He cleans off the gore and loosens his belt

Po-faced, but eager, to have another cut dealt

There's one road; one way in, no way out

Sometimes there'll be a scream or desperate shout

They farm and forage and live off the land

Their crops and their traps are all carefully planned

Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river

With packed lunches of sweetbreads and freshly minced liver

There's an unholy hamlet down in the valley

Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley

They've the axe and the scythe; Hammer & Sickle

They're reticent, mean and constantly fickle

They've a rusty red tractor and bones in the wood

Sometimes there's an aroma of roast pork borne on a scud