The Scyther
©2002 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Tiger Tattoo.
Hear the sound of grass cut down
From seven foot and higher;
And here's the plier of his father's trade,
The swoop and swoosh of the cutting blade;
And through the fields, the scyther.
He rose and bent as on he went,
To swing the circle wider;
He turned the prairie to a field,
He made the stubborn tangle yield
In steady rows, the scyther.
As if to stay eternal day,
To bend and rise forever;
He only paused for mid-day meal,
To draw the stone to whet the steel;
Then through the fields, the scyther.
Day grew long come evensong,
And slowly strode the tiger;
A rusted scythe stands silently
For stone and time and victory;
And through the fields, the scyther.