Dawn, and radios

In milking sheds cheer farmers

Just got out of beds.

Furrowed brows where the

Tractor ploughs brown fields, give the

Farmer better yields.

Cows stare bewildered:

Walkers pass, but never bend

Down to eat the grass.

Sixteen hands he stands,

Quiet, hoping his rider

Goes on a diet.

When you're picking fruit,

Whistle; for this'll ensure

In the end there’s more.

Harvest time again

"Morning fields of amber grain"

Thank you, Don McLean.