| Pennies from heaven
|
| Don’t make me laugh
|
| Here all you’ll get
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| Is the pattering rain
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| Or yon two crows up over the hill
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| Looking for winterkill
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| Always at your boots
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| The mud behind the byre
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| With its clammy hold
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| Would mock you up a grave
|
| Here in the mire of a wrecked sheepfold
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| And all you’ll bring to this
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| Is muscle and grit
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| Persistence, that’s just about it
|
| What made you think
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| There’d be a living in sheep?
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| Eat, work, eat, work and sleep
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| Duck under the eaves
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| Of the bothy
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| To sit here, caged by rain
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| Somewhere to go conjure
|
| A next move
|
| When I have to think again
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| The dog lifts his gaze to plead
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| Believes the wizard has a magic stick
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| Leans his weight into my tweed
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| I give an unholy hand to lick
|
| I take a swig of sheep dip
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| From my flask
|
| And once again I ask
|
| What made you think
|
| There’d be a living in sheep?
|
| Eat, work, eat, work and sleep
|
| They were at this game
|
| Two hundred years ago
|
| Had thirty ways
|
| Of dying young, poor souls
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| Laid to rest in their soggy rows
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| Rain on their holy books
|
| Blood and whisky
|
| On the tongue
|
| And no-one watching over anyone
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| No-one left but your stubborn one
|
| And the crows and rooks
|
| Ah, the dying young
|
| Well I’m not done
|
| You watch me and I’ll watch thee
|
| I can still work for two men
|
| And drink for three
|
| And I raise my flask
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| To the clearing skies
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| To you, sweepers
|
| You carrion spies
|
| To scavenge and survive
|
| If you can do it so can I |