The Man who Grows the Corn


In their tall Saxon Shoes they've straddled the times
Nameless their passing like clouds in the skies,
Silhouetted on the skyline in a hot sunset dust,
Backs bent to the sickle through centuries past
Now the combines work late to gather in the grain
It's headlights by moonlight before tomorrow's rain.

So let's not throw scorn on the man who grows the corn
As he grasps the cold iron in the chill of the dawn
The biggest investment if you reap what you sow,
Is planting a seed and watching it grow
While the seasons still turn, that cock will still crow
They'll be out with the dew in the morning.

In glass city anthills intent on the race
Eyes down to the pavement, they're lost in their maze,
What fruits do they yield, what have they sown,
Just a cold paper balance sheet their harvest home
They're just like the birds that follow the plough
As it pencils straight furrows through the then and now.

So let's not throw scorn on those who grow the corn

First the ox, then the shire now the tractor it speeds,
And strong arms of the welder provide all that you need,
While between those tall buildings a glimpse of the sky
As they fight for their space with an eye for an eye
Stood out on the very spot where they loaded the cart
For those unsung legions who fought Bonaparte


So let's not throw scorn on the man who grows the corn

Turn around turn around time and again
To the beat of the sun , to the rhythm of the rain,
Turn around, turn around the seasons amen
God speed the plough still as you did then


Now those wet lands in November can be a cold heartless
place
But like their fathers before them they know of no other ways
Than this factory in the fields 50 acres to drill
Around the church steeple , and down to the mill
As you roll through the seasons with a keen weather eye,
And the itch of the barley the price that you pay


So let's not throw scorn on the man who grows the corn