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
