Once on Bodmin's windswept moorland
Stood a lowly cattle shed
Where a farmer pronged his silage
So his bullocks could be fed
Awful was the pungent smell
As his wife would often tell
 
Tend the Geese, and count the Turkeys
Feed with corn until quite round
Safe to peck and stretch their wings now
Mr Fox is underground
Peaceful was their winter slumber
Unaware their days are numbered
 
Cross the fields, upon his quad bike
Farmer goes to feed the sheep
All the ewes contently grazing
All the rams, now half asleep
Each had serviced forty mums
Leaving blue upon their bums
 
Short the days, and bitter nights
Rain and sleet, and biting gales
Scraping muck through muddy gateways
Wishing he was somewhere else
How much better, life will be
When he's won, the lottery
 
Hasn't bought the kids their presents
Hasn't got the wife's Chanel
Can't stand Dr Who on telly
Grumbles through the family meal
Not a single cards' been written
All you'll get, is this damn poem!