Spring is in the air, the cows are in the field.
The farmer feeds his land, to try and up the yield.
The soil is fertile, the bull is content,
But the farmer's concern is paying the rent.

He doesn't like the subsidies.
Wants all his cows without disease.
He doesn't want the forms to fill,
Nor men in suits that come to kill.

Half his land is growing nothing, it's set aside.
Half the trees have gone, fields are long and wide.
Pheasants in the woods and cream teas at the house.
Every little income helps to keep him and his spouse.

There's no point growing crops.
When it's all imported in the shops.
People don't want top quality meat.
All they want is stuff that's cheap.

The townies want a theme park and cottages to buy.
No need for busses, schools or row of shops nearby.
Locals yearn for community, the way it used to be.
Green belts are slipping and the countryside is history.

Yes, spring is in the air,
but only concrete cows are in the field.