The fields are filled to overflowing
The breezes, the breezes are certain but gently blowing
The farmers, the farmers are the ones all knowing
Soon their harvests, soon their harvests will be showing
You showed me fields of potatoes
You showed me tunnels of carnations
You showed me glasshouses of tomatoes
All picked by the labourers of less wealthy nations
You showed me the watercolour paintbrushes
You showed me the oil-based sketching pastels
You introduced me to the joy
Of producing the rushes of the wayward rascal
You said I should have a large loft
So as to paint on a bigger canvas
Yet you never mentioned the croft
Where I might write of a different class
I wrote that you are more, I wrote that you are many
I wrote that you are sat at the glass topped table
In this way I was, and I still am quite rudimentary
I take care of myself, preserve all of which I'm capable
