| I’ve got a spade and a pick-axe
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| And a hundred miles square of land to churn about
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| My old horse is weary but sincerely
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| I believe that he can pull a plough
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| Well I’ve moved into the jungle of the agriculture rumble
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| To grow my own food
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| And I’ll dig and plough and scrape the weeds
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| Till I succeed in seeing cabbage growing through
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| Now I’m a farmer, and I’m digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
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| Now I’m a farmer, and I’m digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
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| It’s alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
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| How calming and balming the effect of the air
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| Well, I farmed for a year and grew a crop of corn
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| That stretched as far as the eye can see
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| That’s a whole lot of cornflakes
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| Near enough to feed New York till 1973
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| Cultivation is my station and the nation
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| Buys my corn from me immediately
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| And holding sixty thousand bucks, I watch as dumper trucks
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| Tip New York’s corn flakes in the sea
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| Now look here son
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| The right thing to say
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| Isn’t necessarily what you want to say
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| The right thing to do
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| Isn’t necessarily what you want to do
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| The right things to grow
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| Ain’t necessarily what you want to grow
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| Your own happiness
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| Doesn’t necessarily teach you what you want to know
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| Well I’m suntanned and deep, so’s the horse
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| And my hands are deeply grained
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| Old horse is a-grazing, it’s amazing
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| Just how lazily he took the strain
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| Well my pick and spade are rusty
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| Because I’m paid on trust to leave my square of cornfield bare
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| It’s alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
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| How calming and balming the effect of the air
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| When you grow what I grow
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| Tomatoes, potatoes, stew, eggplants …
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| Potatoes, tomatoes … gourds |