this field needs a reapernthe brush is broken spinesnthe tigers are tirednand the birds are blindnnand there's nothing funnynwhen everything's kindnthey drew your stringnand now you're definednnthis field needs a reapernto cut us all a pathnto trees filled with thingsnthat make me laughnna light by every windowna busted winded songnthis field needs a reapernsinging, woe be gone...nnwoe be gonennbecause i miss the mysterynit's what i miss the mostnthis field needs a reapernand a whipping postnnwoe be gone