- Location
- South west
I don’t know if this has been shared before? But here goes.
Why do these barns stand empty
On this old family farm,
And when did farming smaller holdings actually do the country harm,
He was happy with his hundred ewes, few horses, hens and sows,
Never really saw the need to milk more than thirty cows,
Most of what they ate he grew,
As DEFRA looks to blame,
He didn’t need the plastic tags,
He knew his stock by name,
But he finds himself retiring,
His joints are stiff with age,
His sons moved to the city,
Where they pay a proper wage,
So he’s in the hands of the agents,
And their joy is plain to see,
Not a thought for his lifetimes work,
Just a big fat sellers fee,
They split the farm up into lots,
Such is their endeavour,
Without the sickening realisation,
Another farm is lost forever,
When the farm house sells at auction,
Should he really mind?
When’s it’s bought by the very people
Who have robbed his pension blind,
It’s sold with tiny paddocks,
Because they’d like to keep a horse,
But they love the look of foxes,
So they’ll never hunt of course,
They won’t like crowing cockerels,
Or the smell of muck being spread,
The winter sound of gunfire,
Or the thought of game shot dead,
These barns have stood a century,
Will soon be filled with glass and steel,
Developers will leave some beams in,
So that it has that country feel,
All the strangers move in slowly,
And all the country skills are lost,
Do we think just about the value
But ignore the longe term cost?
He sells the farm and wonders,
What all his works Been for,
And how will these new folk manage,
If there comes another war,
When Sainsbury’s shelves are empty,
No Wheat or livestock reared,
They will look for farms and farmers,
To find that both have disappeared.
Why do these barns stand empty
On this old family farm,
And when did farming smaller holdings actually do the country harm,
He was happy with his hundred ewes, few horses, hens and sows,
Never really saw the need to milk more than thirty cows,
Most of what they ate he grew,
As DEFRA looks to blame,
He didn’t need the plastic tags,
He knew his stock by name,
But he finds himself retiring,
His joints are stiff with age,
His sons moved to the city,
Where they pay a proper wage,
So he’s in the hands of the agents,
And their joy is plain to see,
Not a thought for his lifetimes work,
Just a big fat sellers fee,
They split the farm up into lots,
Such is their endeavour,
Without the sickening realisation,
Another farm is lost forever,
When the farm house sells at auction,
Should he really mind?
When’s it’s bought by the very people
Who have robbed his pension blind,
It’s sold with tiny paddocks,
Because they’d like to keep a horse,
But they love the look of foxes,
So they’ll never hunt of course,
They won’t like crowing cockerels,
Or the smell of muck being spread,
The winter sound of gunfire,
Or the thought of game shot dead,
These barns have stood a century,
Will soon be filled with glass and steel,
Developers will leave some beams in,
So that it has that country feel,
All the strangers move in slowly,
And all the country skills are lost,
Do we think just about the value
But ignore the longe term cost?
He sells the farm and wonders,
What all his works Been for,
And how will these new folk manage,
If there comes another war,
When Sainsbury’s shelves are empty,
No Wheat or livestock reared,
They will look for farms and farmers,
To find that both have disappeared.
