The lowland scrub where the corncrake croak
Like a buzz on a cockroach's throat
Like a disco, a turn up to vote
In the booths of policemen
When they ring the yard on the phone
Oh the lowland reeds and the heathery belt
Where the corncrake hides in his feathery pelt
And the cornflakes fly and the cocoa pops melt
To the rice crispy cries of snap crackle and Celt
Oh lay myself down for to hear the Corncrake
On the isle of Canna where the canned worms wake
And they opened and wriggled around on the make
For the blue sea glistened but I never heard the Corncrake
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