Tug them up by the scruffs, child,
even as the farmer reloads.
For what is a harvest, but a grand purloining?
What are hands, if not for getting mucky?
Steal them in great armfuls,
heft them like sticks of dynamite,
run, with the taste of blood in your throat
as shot whizzes round your ears.
That's what a harvest is, child,
that's the meaning of fun.
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