Old tractor dismembered and shrouded in dust, Her body disfigured with horrible
rust. Her day is long over, her ploughing all done, No more will her bodywork glint
in the sun. The spark plugs are gone, there's no fire inside, Her pistons long idle, her spirit had died. She rusts in dishonour. not even a grave, Not much reward, for the service she gave. In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone, She's been robbed of her seat, that once was her throne. No one to sing to the song of the gears, Everything worthwhile has gone with the years. In her prime she could plough fifteen acres a day, The binder in Autumn considered as play. With tanks full of fuel, she'd strike out at the dawn, And still would be there when the
last light had gone. Ploughing or harrows, she didn't much care, The belt pull at harvest when Fall's in the air. Her real work revealing what lay below ground,
Ploughing each new year when Spring rolled around. But yesterday's gone, must keep up with the times, Not much call today, for pitch fork with tines. Computerised cows let themselves out to graze, And no doubt tomorrow, there'll
be a new craze. In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone, She's been robbed of her seat, that once was her throne. No one to sing to the song of the
gears, Everything worthwhile has gone with the years.
rust. Her day is long over, her ploughing all done, No more will her bodywork glint
in the sun. The spark plugs are gone, there's no fire inside, Her pistons long idle, her spirit had died. She rusts in dishonour. not even a grave, Not much reward, for the service she gave. In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone, She's been robbed of her seat, that once was her throne. No one to sing to the song of the gears, Everything worthwhile has gone with the years. In her prime she could plough fifteen acres a day, The binder in Autumn considered as play. With tanks full of fuel, she'd strike out at the dawn, And still would be there when the
last light had gone. Ploughing or harrows, she didn't much care, The belt pull at harvest when Fall's in the air. Her real work revealing what lay below ground,
Ploughing each new year when Spring rolled around. But yesterday's gone, must keep up with the times, Not much call today, for pitch fork with tines. Computerised cows let themselves out to graze, And no doubt tomorrow, there'll
be a new craze. In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone, She's been robbed of her seat, that once was her throne. No one to sing to the song of the
gears, Everything worthwhile has gone with the years.
