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.