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.

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