bunches

If you go up on Cotswold along of Jenny Lind
You'll hear the same old melodies a-singing in the wind.
It's still the ancient pattern, and you hardly know it's there,
You say it is grey weather and the swinging of the mare.

The Prime Minister of England, Mr Cameron by name,
He lives upon the Cotswold, and his family does the same.
And Rupert Murdoch's editor, she lives on Cotswold too;
And when they're riding side by side they talk about the news.

I used to work the saw horse, I don't touch it any more;
My son does all the sawing, when there's anything to saw.
And when the plain of Cotswold is all supercharged with fogs,
He runs me up a trailerload of beech and cherry logs.

The crowns of winter woodland decline into the mist
I've got a shotgun but I only use it when I'm pissed.
The only thing I ever hit's a global activist.

The larks were high in frothy June, when eyes of heaven burn;
We gate* to watch the cardinal balloons of high Colerne.
The rocks of Box and high Colerne are made of little balls;
And ladies still at smart motels traverse those golden vestibules.

*dial. "stand by the garden gate"