Hammer & Sickle

Contemplate this, hole-and-corner, verdant valley    
A place, if known, into which one might choose to sally  
There's no rush hour mayhem, for there is no commuting    
No law enforcement, no taxes and no genteel disputing      
Here they forage and farm beyond the civilised clamour    
Working hard the sickle and scythe, the saw and the hammer    
    
It's a serene cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses    
Where they all reside, them and their spouses    
All rustic types who use the Hammer & Sickle    
Reticent, mean and constantly fickle    
There's a rusty red tractor, circa the sixties    
Runs on red stolen from gypsies    
   
There's chopped wood for the hearth in a teetering stack    
And an assortment of livestock, for nothing they lack      
Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river    
With packed lunches of sweetbreads and minced chicken liver    
   
One has a baccy stained beard that's grime infested    
And the weasel eyes of a man too often arrested    
He pulls a bucket from a well and drinks the sullied water    
In his outhouse squeals a pig who is ready for slaughter    
He sharpens a cleaver and tightens his belt    
Po-faced, but eager, to have the fatal cut dealt    
   
There's a communal settlement down in the valley    
Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley    
Those who are there will harvest crops with razor sharp scythes    
Contribute to the barn and take care of their wives    
Some of them are farmers tending the wheat    
But some of them are hunters gathering the meat    
   
There's a distant voice heard on a walkie-talkie    
From high on a hill someone has called in from a sortie    
A gun is reloaded with buckshot in a cartridge    
He'll be stalking today, but not the pheasant or the partridge    
They'll need to stoke up a stove and put smoke through a stack    
With fresh meat on the way for nothing they'll lack    
   
There's an eerie cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses    
Where they all reside, them and their spouses    
All rustic types who enjoy the wield of an axe    
With the comforting thuds of well delivered hacks    
They pull a plough with the tractor, circa the sixties    
They're self sufficient and drink moonshine, meths and whiskeys    
     
Baccy beard is back with his hands grime infested    
With his weasel eyes looking keen and far from dejected    
He cleans off the gore and loosens his belt    
Po-faced, but eager, to have another cut dealt    
   
There's one road; one way in; no way out    
Sometimes there'll be a scream or a desperate shout    
They farm and forage and live off the land    
Their crops and their traps are all carefully planned    
Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river    
With packed lunches of sweetbreads and freshly minced liver    
   
There's an unholy hamlet down in the valley    
Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley    
They've the axe and the scythe; Hammer & Sickle    
They're reticent, mean and constantly fickle    
They've a rusty red tractor and bones in the wood    
Sometimes there's an aroma of roast pork borne on a scud