Man sprays no weeds The scythe cuts the corn bleeds Leverets trapped in a harvest blade 'Tis the time of man, the hare said Here's the tractor here's the plough And where shall we go now We'll lie in forms as still as the dead In the open fields, the hare said.
No cover but the camouflage From the winter's wild and bitter rage All our defense is in our legs We run like the wind, the hare said.
